BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 18)


By KATZMAREK ©


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In March 1939 everything in Spain came to a final conclusion. Miaja, charged with the defence of Madrid, knew there was little point and began some limited 'discussion' with Franco's Generals. Negrin, the Prime Minister, had been flown out of Barcelona in a Russian aircraft and, after two days, appeared in Moscow with Stalin himself.


The siege of Barcelona had been mercifully short. The Popular Army just didn't have any more fight left in them. The Nationalist General Prieto cut loose the thugs of his Falangist units who swarmed through the streets, arresting, executing, and beating up people pretty much at random. Things didn't augur well for the 'peace.'


General Modesto, Communist supreme commander of the Popular Army, heard of the 'discussion' with the Nationalists and was furious. He sacked Miaja, who refused to go. Fearing what Modesto would do if given free rein, Miaja led a mutiny of the Popular Army in Madrid. Modesto led loyal troops to the Capital but, before they could arrive, Miaja ordered his troops to lay down their arms and leave the lines. White flags were flown from the parapets. Nationalist troops marched in that very afternoon. Modesto was isolated and his army disbanded. All was over.


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In Novgorod, little of any news appeared in the newspapers about Spain. All the Russian papers were delivered to the Pravda Hotel, including 'Tass,' which was normally for foreign consumption. The 'Vremya' carried a short article on page three about atrocities perpetrated by 'Fascist lackeys and their fellow travellers.' Vitriol towards Nazi Germany had been toned down, Benin noted. Now, the 'Vremya' described the German Condor Legion as a 'Foreign volunteer organisation.' It all seemed a bit suspicious to her.


John had appeared again on the front page of the Air Force newspaper 'Red Star.' His name had been misspelt and his photo was taken with a woman pilot, a beautiful blond called Jana Ivanova. She recognised the name as the one John had accidently called her that morning 2 weeks ago. Benin seethed as she stared at the photo. If she ever discovered John was having an affair with that woman she'd geld him.


She'd never imagined ever feeling this way. She'd rebelled against the institution of marriage as it existed in Spain. Wives had few rights, they hadn't the vote until 1931, and their treatment by the average Spanish husband was appalling, in Benin's opinion.


John had opened her eyes. He'd been so different to just about every man she'd ever met. He was tender, caring, had treated her as an equal and was disarmingly honest. That was, Benin suspected, before he'd met that Russian woman. She had a chassis impossible to compete with.


"I'm not going to compete," she said out loud, throwing the newspaper on the floor. "She can have the bastard and good luck."


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Meanwhile, John was introduced to a new, young, talented, aircraft designer. Russia didn't appear short of them, but then, scientific and engineering professions had been oversold to the youth of Russia. And also, it was continually pointed out, Russia had a history of powered flight as least as long as the Americans. John was surprised to learn that the Wright Brothers were a fraud and that it was a Russian who'd first taken to the air in an aeroplane. 'Every Russian schoolchild knew that,' John had been told, 'how could he have been so gullible?'


Sergei Ilyushin had been a display flier before he attended the Aviation Design and Engineering Institute at Rostov on Don and gained his degree. He was not only an innovative and skilled designer, but knew aircraft from a pilot's point of view. Unlike Dr. Mikoyan, who had refused to speak to John after he'd been critical of the MiG 3, Ilyushin was anxious to include John in his new project.


The Red Airforce was critically short of modern aircraft. Designers and engineers were under incredible pressure and some aircraft were being rushed into production before they'd been fully developed. Mikoyan's MiG 3 went into production with broader wings to reduce the landing speed and increase stability. Many of the faults John identified were still there, but it had a good turn of speed and was better than most of the existing equipment.


The LaGG 3 was approved, despite its inadequate power, and Dr. Yakovlev's Yak 3. Proving was said to have been completed following the Yak's air display so John and Jana were reassigned. Jana went to the Polykarpov Bureau to re-jig the I16. John went to Ilyushin's and his new plane, the future Il2.


John had mixed feelings about the separation. He'd felt awkward around her for the few days after the display. Jana had not mentioned the 'incident' further and had been pretty much her old self but, nevetheless, he felt a fool.


Ilyushin's design was astonishing. Outwardly, it was a conventional monoplane optimised for ground attack, handsome, yet businesslike. A single cockpit was fitted to the prototype but some provision was being considered for a second crewman behind the pilot. But the amazing thing about it was the front of the aircraft. From the nose to just behind the pilot, the Il2 was fashioned out of one piece of solid armour plate. In addition, the proposed armament were two cannons lifted out of a light tank!


The heavy plane had to be powered by an M38, a bomber engine, developed by Dr. Mikhulin out of the Hispano-Suiza to such a degree that it was regarded as a domestic design. The aircraft was a tank with wings and there was no other aircraft like it anywhere in the World. John could see it was a tour de force and Ilyushin had burst into the aviation world with a vengeance.


At altitude it was a slug to fly and it certainly wasn't a dogfighter. But that wasn't its purpose. Il2s rarely flew above 2000 metres and most often much less. All Soviet aircraft were heavy on the controls, but the Il2 was brutal on its pilot. John felt like he'd just gone 10 rounds with a heavyweight wrestler when he landed after his first flight. But, flat out, 50 metres off the ground, it was a thrilling aircraft to fly.


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'Oz' had found somewhere to stay the night in Perpignan. It was at the house of a local supporter and a dozen of them were crammed into the small lounge. 


His head was too heavy on his shoulders and it was an effort to look up. If it wasn't for Catalina propping him up he would have toppled from his chair. She was not in much better shape, having drunk at least as much as he. But, he surmised, she had a lower centre of gravity and he'd rarely seen her keel over.


"C'mon," she told him, "sweet dreams for you... drunken bastard!"


"Wha? Leave me alone," he slurred. But he offered no resistance as she pulled him from his chair and deposited his body on the floor. With a crash, she fell down next to him.


"I think I'm drunk," she mumbled. But 'Oz' was already in a coma.


The next day they regretted the indulgence of the night before. 'Oz' groaned piteously and Catalina told him to shut up. The room was devastated and stank of booze and stale bodies. They couldn't move without treading on someone's arm or vitals. But 'Oz''s throat was as dry as the desert so he stumbled through to the kitchen for water.


"Fucking Hell!" he whined as he sat outside in the yard, "I feel like I've been hit by a train!" Catalina came and sat beside him. She draped an arm over his shoulders and pushed a bowl of grapes into his lap. They both picked at them, spitting the pips out over the small garden. Catalina spat further. 'Oz' grinned, 'was there nothing she couldn't do?'


"Where you go now?" she asked him.


"Home? I dunno."


"What, you swim?" 'Oz' shrugged. He was broke and had no idea how he was going to get home. He refused to see the British Consul on principle, the Australian Embassy was far away in Paris, and he'd no idea what assistance they could offer him anyway.


Catalina stroked 'Oz's shoulders and tousled his hair. "You need a wash, shave and haircut. You look like shit!" she told him.


Beni crashed, stumbling through the door to the small yard. He urinated into the herb garden.


"Hey Beni!" 'Oz' said, "careful of the oregano. That's going into the paella."


"Oops! You maybe use the sage?"


"That *is* the sage."


"Oh well," he shrugged, "it adds aroma."


"So, what *are* you going to do?" Catalina drew him back. Again, 'Oz' had no answer to give. "You maybe come home with me to Provence?" she suggested, "it's a roof for the time being."


"Y'sure?" 'Oz' replied, "I don't want to be a burden to your family?"


"No burden," she told him, "they've got plenty to share around. My Father is a professor of politics at the University. Mother is a successful artist. They're very committed people, you like them."


"I will?" 'Oz' shivered. It sounded like he was going to have more political lectures. "They're going to chew my ears off?" he asked Catalina.


"No," she laughed, "they have plenty of food." She batted him playfully sending him teetering off his chair. She grabbed him around the head and dragged gim back. "It's going to be good," she told him, "you and me!"


'Oz' smiled weakly.


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It had been someone's bright idea, but few of the test pilots at the Red Air Force Tactical Research and Weapons Institute agreed. Take an aircraft designed in 1931, some 8 years ago, graft it to a more powerful engine, upgrade the controls, weapons, reinforce the airframe where it needs to be reinforced, then rush it into service with minimal testing. Factories were already tooled up for it, the bureaucrats reasoned, so the aircraft could be produced in big numbers with little interruption to production lines. But, Jana was convinced, the I16 had had its day.


The I16 had been a sensation when it was first revealed to the West; an all-metal monoplane, clean, without exposed bracing or control wires, and fast and maneuvrable. Most of the World's airforces were still relying on the venerable biplane, with mixed metal, wood and fabric construction. The Italians were *still* producing biplane fighters, the Fiat CR42, and the British, with their Gloster Gladiator, long after the I16 had made them obsolete.


But all the West's airforces were now producing fighters that were, not only the equal, but much superior to the Russian. Frontal Aviation still had 100s of the I16s as their front line strength, as well as the older, biplane I15. They needed to be replaced, in the opinion of the pilots, not upgraded.


Polykarpov himself understood. But in Russia he did what he was told. He *had* to find ways of improving the I16's performance and that was that.


Jana missed John. He was so easy going and could be relied on to make some wry joke when things got heavy. She could pour out her feelings to him and he'd understand. He'd no interest in sucking up to anyone. He didn't care about his 'career' as others did. Most of all, though, he was her friend.


She regretted the incident that morning. She'd provoked him, she realised, and had encouraged him to step over the boundary. She'd fondled his arse and he'd responded like any red blooded male. If he then assumed he could feel her up in a room full of big shots, then she was partly to blame. She'd acted like a bitch in heat around him.


A Russian Officer of lower grade wouldn't have touched her up like that, he wouldn't have dared to. No matter no-one appeared to witness the incident, they'd been too busy congratulating each other and bolting vodka. It had reminded her of her struggle with male colleagues and superiors she'd had when forging a career as an aerobatic pilot. They too, took her for a whore until she reminded them of their place. She'd kneed a few hopeful Romeos in the balls, she grinned, they learned to take her seriously or else!


But John was no Russian and hadn't been instilled with the strict military code of conduct that set firm boundaries between the ranks. In fact, rank had never been an issue between them. He should have saluted her in front of the other ranks, but she couldn't remember him ever saluting anyone. He probably never realised he'd been commissioned into the Red Airforce with the probationary rank of Senior Lieutenant. He'd probably not understood the little speech of the General nor knew what the paper was he'd been given. If he had, she mused, he'd probably couldn't have cared less.


She was sorry she'd punched him. She wanted to explain, to apologise, but he never gave her the opportunity. Hell, she would let him put his hand down her pants if things would be the same between them again. In fact, she absently crossed her legs, it might not be that great a sacrifice!


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Benin had been offered a job at the Languages Department at the University. It had come out of the blue, but she siezed the chance to get out of the Pravda for a while, to think about something else besides John and babies.


It was administrative work, not particularly interesting, but she got to meet new people, educated, clever people, who actually listened to her and valued her opinions.


John was coming home shattered and dropping off to sleep straight after dinner. He'd told her only that he was 'hard at it' testing a new aircraft. It was 'a dung hunter' that 'handled like a brick shit house' and he loved it, even though it was hard work. Benin hadn't really understood, but she rarely understood much about him these days.


He *had* told her that he wasn't working with Jana anymore. He didn't see her much, he said, because they were working at different fields. John had seemed disappointed. Benin *knew* something had happened between them but how far it'd gone, she couldn't tell.


"Have you been fucking her?" she'd demanded.


"No!" he'd told her. His answer was spontaneous with no hint of surprise or outrage. She *knew* he'd been thinking about it and his answer hadn't made her happy. Benin had obtained two tickets to the Medvedev's production of 'Swan Lake' that night. She went alone.


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'Oz' and Catalina caught the 'Provencal' that evening. It was the fast express service of the Sud-Est Railway Company, then recently Nationalised into French State Railways, SNCF. Catalina had bought third class tickets. Even though, she said, she could well-afford 1st class, she preferred to be with the 'proletariat.' 'Oz' couldn't care, it was better than walking.


The farewell to Beni and the others had been emotional. No such significant occasion could go past without suitable libation. 'Oz' hadn't drunk much, however, he hadn't fully recovered from the previous night. Even Catalina was a little under the weather and had played with her favourite tipple, Merlot. She hadn't even sung a song. 'Oz' had never seen her so depressed.


They'd all escorted the couple down to the train and stood on the platform as it pulled out of the station. 'Oz' saw Catalina was in tears, but she insisted afterwards it was the smoke in the carriage.


The seats in third class were wooden benches that were tough on the arse after a while. The carriage was crowded and people were sitting in the aisles. The gaslights strained against the fog of cigarette smoke, but you couldn't open a window or the tobacco smoke would be replaced with coal smoke from the locomotive.


Their destination was a small village outside Marseille. It would take the train about 2 and a half hours meaning they should arrive around midnight. They would then need to walk a further 5 kms to Catalina's house. 'Oz' realised he didn't know her real name, nor anything about her French life. He just hadn't bothered asking, it hadn't seemed important at the time.


"What's your name?" he asked, suddenly. She looked startled that he'd ask such a question.


"Catalina! You playing the fool?"


"No, your real one. The one you use for 'non-revolutionary purposes'?"


"Ah, my birth name? I was called 'Sophie'"


"Nah!" he said, shaking his head, "you don't look like a 'Sophie' to me."


"And what are you called?" she challenged, "'Oz?' That is a clown's name. 'Oswald?"


"Reginald," he told her, grinning sheepishly. She laughed lustily.


"Reginald? Haha! 'Reginald Callaghan,' that is a Lawyer's name! Mr Reginald Callaghan, Barrister at Law. Oh, haha!"


"Tell you what, Catalina. I'll call you Catalina and you call me 'Oz' ok?"


"Agreed!" They shook hands.


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The train barely stopped. This was a 'request stop' and 'Oz' and Catalina were the only people to alight from the train. The train's brakes squealed, the guard hopped down from the car, the couple hurried off as the guard blew the whistle, then steam cannoned from the locomotive as it thundered out into the night.


They stood on the platform listening to the train as it roared onto the bridge over the Canal St Louis. The steam gradually dispersed with the sea breeze. Not far away, 'Oz' could hear the sound of the surf pounding onto the beach. Otherwise things were still. The distant roaring of the train abruptly stopped.


"It's too late," said Catalina.


"What for?" 'Oz' asked.


"To go home. It's too late. My parents would be asleep and the place locked for the night."


"So you don't have a key?" She shook her head. "So what'll we do? Doss down in the waiting room?"


"No," she said, "they lock it up. No-one comes here at this time. But I think I know a place."


"Lead on."


Catalina lead him down to the beach. The broad sands were deserted and stretched far out into the night towards the Gulf de Lyon. Catalina lead him to a pavilion. She told him it had been a rotunda once but it had been fully enclosed so old folks could have some shelter out of the wind and the hot sun. "That's nice of them," 'Oz' commented.


"Yes, but there's door around the back that's never locked. The postman leaves a sack of mail in there when he makes his rounds in the morning."


"Why doesn't someone just give him a key?"


"Because this is France," she smiled.


She tried the door and it opened imediately. They went through and up some short wooden stairs. Inside, the room was semi-circular filled with stacked deck chairs and a couple of old sofas. The sofas they pushed together to make a bed.


'Oz' realised this was the first time they been alone together without at least half a dozen snoring, farting Anarchists around them. Ok, they'd dozed in that crevice in the rock up there in the Pyrenees, but this was diferent. Up there, they'd tried to stop from pegging out with exposure. But here, they were comfortably alone with all that might imply.


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Benin was bent over her books, as usual. John was dozing by the radio. It was a political broadcast about grain harvests, steel production and some 'provocation' on the Polish border. 'The Red Army stands ready,' the speaker was saying, 'to safeguard the security of the Russian people.' Benin realised it was Josef Stalin himself. John continued dozing. 'How very un-Russian of him,' she grinned.


There was a tap on the door. Benin opened it and saw their old friend Rhykov, wearing a uniform of a Colonel of Marines. He brandished a fine bottle of Vodka with a smile that would melt the taiga. He swept Benin into an embrace.


"Hey Lieutenant!" he called to John, "you not salute a superior?" John woke with a start and stood staring at him. "Hey! Turn off bullshit," he said, nodding towards the radio, "we drink, yes?" He swept Benin into the room with an arm around her waist. "You feed this woman," he pointed at John, "she's thinner than my finger."


"Not for long!" reminded Benin.


"All the more that you should eat! Come, where does the Pravda keep their glasses?"


"You don't know?" laughed Benin. Rhykov laughed, too, and gave her a squeeze.


"So," he said, pouring for them, "what's the news?"


They talked long into the night. John and Benin were grateful for the distraction, and they were pleased to see Rhykov again. He was in a happy mood, things were apparently looking up. He told them the uniform was for 'convenience' and he'd definitely *not* joined the Marines. Nevertheless, John and Benin ribbed him mercilessly because they knew of his opinion of the Marines.


He told John he'd heard the bigshots had been very pleased with the assistance he'd been able to provide to the Air Force. He wished Benin all the best with her new job and intimated he expected her to be offered a more rewarding position.


"Is there anything the GPU doesn't know?" Benin asked.


"Nothing," he said, "the service hears everything... sooner or later." He glanced at John who squirmed in his seat.


After Rhykov left, John went back to the radio. Instead of a political speech, however, there was some Waltz music. John extended his arms and Benin came to him. They twirled a couple of times before he pulled her into his chest and just swayed in time. She looked up to his face and he kissed her. Benin thought he caught a tear in his eye.


Soon their hands began to drift over each other. He kissed her again and suggested it was late and they should be in bed. He guided her through to their bedroom.


He was already hard when Benin lowered his trousers. She, too, throbbed with desire as he helped her out of her clothes. They laid on the bed naked and touching, delighting in the closeness, the intimacy and in their familiar responses.


She excited him with her tongue, licked his balls and up his hard penis. He lapped her hard nipples, kissed her over her tummy and between her legs. They grappled each other into a '69,' his tongue barely reaching into her crevice. But most of all, they loved the sensation as he slid into her, slowly, lovingly, and they cried their orgasms into each others cheeks.


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Catalina had taken off her outer clothes out of 'Oz's' sight behind the sofa. She climbed in next to him in her underwear.


'Oz' thought she had a womanly body full of curves. She was solid, yes, but without the baggy clothes she'd always wear, he saw she had a nicely stacked top shelf. These she nestled into him, lovely globes of womanly flesh.


She called him a reed, but his body was hard and well muscled from an outdoor life. He wore a cheeky grin, the same one that had always warmed her body. She thought that right here, with no sound but the distant pounding of the waves, with no-one to interrupt them; now was the time to have her man.


She leaned over and kissed him, lightly at first, but with growing passion. Wordless, should any word be necessary? Wordless, he exlored her with his hands. She shivered when he scooped each breast, and she unclipped her bra for him. Growling he fell on them, then, lapping them with his tongue and sucking each brown nipple right into his mouth.


'Please,' she thought, 'let this be prefect.' She held his hard cock, it was surprisingly big for such a shrimp, she thought. And when he pushed it inside her she gasped as it filled her up. He was not gentle, but she didn't want gentle. She wanted to be taken and he took her with passion and desperation. She loved every minute as he pounded her ruthlessly to conclusion, her feet locked together and her hands gripping his arse. That arse, she thought, that she made so much fun of, really did, 'know her business.'


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KATZMAREK ©

