BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 21)


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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On November the 30th, 1939, in what came to be known as the 'Winter War,' over 300,000 Soviet troops, including 5 armoured brigades, together with their air support rolled over the border into Finland. It was meant to be an 'occupation' and not much trouble was expected from the small Finnish army.


Soviet newspapers reported 'provocations' on the border. The Finnish attitude was reported as 'hostile to Soviet interests. They claimed Finnish artillery had fired across the border. There was even a photograph of a Russian border post damaged by Finnish gunfire. It was a complete lie.


Far from provoking the Russians the Finns had bent over backwards to accommodate Russian demands. Isolated because of the sudden withdrawal of German moral support, Finland could do little else. Her army numbered 139,000 including reserves and the 'lottas,' women auxiliaries. It was a home defence force with few heavy weapons, a tiny airforce, and no armour to speak of.


But within days the Finnish army had stopped the Soviet war machine in its tracks.


For breathtaking ineptitude the Soviet Generals who led the invasion had few equals. The Russians attacked with the onset of Winter, confining themselves to the few roads with columns of tracked vehicles. These provided a magnet to the fast moving Finnish ski troops who moved cross country and ambushed the hapless Russians with their Suomi 9mm machine guns. Within a week, the Russian army had gone nowhere except for some small gains at Petsamo in the North.


All this and the response of the Soviet media was a stony silence.


Benin, at Novgorod University heard that a research Scientist had passed through the area that was said to have been bombarded by Finnish artillery. The Scientist claimed, in confidence, he'd seen nothing of this bombardment. By such means, Russians, who were in the know, passed on the information to others. Soon, it became obvious that something was seriously wrong with the Red Army. And that they'd all been lied to about the threat from Finland.


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"You are alone?" said Rhykov, peering past John into the room.


"Rhykov!" said John, startled, "Of course... who..."


"Ah! Let us act like men, yes? Men that are friends. You are still a friend, John?"


"Of course," John said, "why do you ask?"


"Because I need one. Come, you have vodka?" John went to the cabinet and produced a bottle. "No, John, I don't mean that shit." He then drew a bottle from his uniform coat. He wore the winter dress of a Colonel of a Russian armoured brigade.


He came into the room, looked around carefully, before taking a seat by the kitchen table. John fetched some glasses and pushed them over to him. Rhykov poured a shot then bolted it down. "Ah, that's better," he said. He poured another, picked it up, then stared at it. "It's a pity," he suddenly said, "that you and Benin did not last the distance, a great pity. Families are important. I should know for I have none."


"I'm sorry, Rhykov," John told him, helpless. 


Ignoring him, Rhykov continued. "I thought that you, at least, would grow old together. It is a great disappointment."


"I... I don't know what to say."


"Hah, don't mind me," Rhykov said, suddenly lifting his shoulders. "This is a happy time, no? Let's drink to old friends... and new, yes?" Rhykov seemed to study John carefully. It was a long time before he said anything. "John!" he said with a suddeness that startled John, "let me tell you a few things about Jana Ivanova."


"I don't think..." John mumbled, uncomfortable with the conversation.


"She is very pretty, yes? But I imagine you know that," he grinned. "But you should know some things, I think. 'Ivanova,' that is a very Russian name, yes? 'Ivan,' he was a Tsar, a terrible one. Perhaps you've heard of him?" John nodded, confused. "But 'Ivanova' is not Jana's real name. It is made up."


"So what is her real name?" John asked.


"It's Timosoari. That is very Finnish sounding, isn't it? 'Jana Timosoari,' she is not Russian, John, but Finnish, a Karelian Finn, in fact."


"So, what's wrong with that?" John said, "why did she change her name?"


"Ambition, John. She changed her name for, ah, convenience. Russia has 168 different ethnic minorities, yes? But only Russians and those with Slavic names get on in Soviet Union. If you want to get on in Russia, and you don't look like a Tartar, you adopt Russian name. It opens doors."


"So she changed her name?" John said, irritated. "What's that to do with me?"


"Jana Ivanova is very ambitious, always has been. I tell you, in all honesty, because I know this. You are proving to be big ticket for her. She is fine pilot, sure, but she is a Major, now, because of her association with you."


"I don't see how..."


"Because big shots think she is keeping you loyal. I argue against this, ah, relationship, but I'm not big enough big shot, yes? They say you two make nice picture in 'Red Star.' You were put together, John, deliberately."


"Why, why, who? the GPU?"


"Not GPU," grinned Rhykov, "you think I'd be telling you this if the GPU had anything to do with this, ah, arrangement? No, we had nothing to do with it. It is another, organisation, Russia is full of them. I think Jana is your minder, I think she gets rewards for, ah, looking after you. This I think but I don't know for sure. Is another organisation, I think GRU, Military Intelligence."


"GRU?"


"Yes. Is rivalry, sometimes. I think maybe Stalin prefers it that way. We watch each other so we don't watch him, yes? Is crazy Russian thing!" he laughed.


"So you're saying that Jana was put..."


"...With you for a purpose," he interrupted, "that she's working for the GRU. I think this, you understand."


"I don't believe it, she's... she's..."


"What, too pretty? Her tits are too nice? What is it you don't believe? Happens all the time. You must be on your guard," he pointed at John, "be careful what you say and do around Jana Ivanova."


"I don't understand what the GRU would want from me."


"Who knows?" Rhykov shrugged, "maybe you prize, yes? Maybe you are, how you say, 'piggy in middle'? GPU and GRU they both want to, ah, control you? For what ultimate purpose, I don't know. Maybe turn you into spy for them? Send you West, perhaps?"


"Me, a spy?" John said in shock.


"Sure! We do this stuff, sometimes. A man is so, ah, lovestruck he will do anything. We do it, the GRU do it. We all use women this way."


"Christ!" John said, rubbing his forehead.


"But we never had this talk, yes?" Rhykov said, "you don't remember our conversation?"


"No," John said, confused, "of course not."


"Good! And I see the bottle is not empty? This is unforgivable in Russia." Rhykov poured another two glasses.


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After the heavy defeat of the Soviet army in Finland during December 1939, Stalin called on no less than 40% of all the forces in European Russia. Some estimates put the Soviet losses in the first attack as over 30,000. The Finns admitted to losing only some 10% of that, just under 3000. Stalin committed 27 Infantry Divisions and 7 Armoured Brigades. In addition, some 450 aircraft were thrown at the Finns. 


Tactics had barely improved, but Marshal Timoshenko, Supreme Commander, threw this immense force mercilessly at the Finns of Marshal Mannerheim until they cracked from sheer weight of numbers. Even so, Russian losses were heavy and serious questions were being asked in the Soviet High Command.


But responsibility had to be sheeted home right to the top of the Soviet hierarchy. It was Josef Stalin himself who ordered the purging of the Officer Corps of the Red Army. Of 706 Officers of General rank, 403 had been liquidated in the purge. Three out of five Marshals had been shot. This left a dearth of talent in the leadership of the Army and those who were left were disinclined to display too much initiative.


A unit commander, for instance, who found himself surrounded waited for orders from up the chain before he would do anything. Even the most logical maneuvre required authority, and who could blame a commander? The Ivan in Finland gave nothing away in courage to the Finns but were badly let down by their commanders. This was obvious to every soldier and it was the Ivan's innate courage under fire, his sense of duty and fatalism that drove him to tolerate this state of affairs. 


And things had not improved significantly when, a year later, the German Wehrmacht drove into the very heart of European Russia.


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Professor Shapashnikov was a Doctor of Letters. He was an internationally recognised authority on Russian literature, a man of immense intelligence and learning and he took a shine to the young Spanish lady who taught in his department. His wife had died of Tuberculosis some 20 years ago and the University had since been his life. That, and a passion for the Ballet.


He was nearly 61 years old when he decided to take Benin under his wing. The lady seemed lost in Russia. She'd done her best, had displayed a keen interest in learning Russian, but he could see her heart was elsewhere. Nevertheless, she was vivacious, this young woman, and exotic. Mediterranean features were something of a rarity in Novgorod.


Benin was interested in the Ballet and theatre. She was all alone after she had split from the Father of her child. It seemed natural to the Professor to offer to take her to the Medvedev. Soon he was accompanying her to shows 2 to 3 times a week.


Inevitably they drew close. Benin loved his wisdom and knowledge. He was kind, caring and loved little Garcia as his own. His children, he told her, had all grown up and had not been inclined to breed. A son had joined the Soviet Navy and had made Captain. His other son was an Engineer.


He told her that Garcia had the hands of an artist and the determination of a soldier. Benin replied that he was bound to be a flier like his Father, that John had sensitive hands. The Professor had reddened a little in embarrassment but Benin had not noticed. That was partly why the Professor found her so captivating. She had none of the natural Russian reserve.


For, in the Professor's opinion, despite Russia's fine history in the liberal arts, in music and Ballet, the average Russian was a prude. Stoical, a Russian needs to be well-primed with vodka before he's prepared to release his feelings.


"Then," he told Benin, "he can blame it all on the booze. And," he added, "a young Russian male is ruled by his Mother... in all things." 


"How so?"


"When I first brought home a girlfriend to show my Mother," the Professor said, "I was 22." Benin raised her eyebrows. "Ah, maybe 01? 02? Something like that? Tsar Nicholas was in charge, of course, but Russian culture, morality, does not change at the whim of the Party. I was 22 and my Mother didn't approve of her. That, Benin, was that!" he shrugged, "I never saw her again. That was a great pity because I was so in love with her."


"I'm sorry."


"Ah, it was a long time ago. I have, how you say, 'got over it'. My wife," he added, "and I were very happy. We had a fortunate life."


Benin took his hand and smiled. Professor Shapashnikov patted her on the back of her hand in appreciation.


It was good to have someone who was not Russian and with whom he could share his feelings. Most of the Professor's colleagues would've been acutely embarrassed to hear him talk so. Unless, he mused, they were all drunk and they could blame it on the booze in the morning.


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John, not accustomed to the Macchiavellian machinations of Soviet secret security bureaus, grappled with his sense of betrayal after hearing Rhykov's opinions that night. The next morning he found it hard to look Jana in the eye. She sensed sonething was wrong and confronted him.


"What's the matter?" she asked him at their schedualled meeting. Until Benin had moved out, these 'meetings' had been an opportunity to have sex. But now, with John's quarters available, there was no longer any need to take the risk.


"Nuthin'" he told her, sullenly.


"John... you are a fucking child, sometimes. I'm not your Mother and you haven't stolen any cakes. Or have you?" she asked with mock suspician.


"This whole society... Russia. It just pisses me off sometimes."


"Well, that's understandable. It pisses us all off. But what in particular?"


"All the secret stuff... spies, agents, informants... everyone watching each other..."


She looked at him for a while, trying to penetrate his thoughts. "You haven't told me anything," she said, "these spies, informants, they are a fact of life here. You surely knew that."


"Yes."


"And is true of any military, anywhere. You think the British don't keep an eye on the loyalty of their own soldiers? What's so unusual about this?"


"The level, I guess. It doesn't seem you can trust anybody."


"Perhaps!" she said, "but you can trust me, can't you?" She saw the answer in his expression. "Ah, she said, "it *is* about me! You tell me, please, all that you've heard?"


"That you're working for the GRU? That you are being paid to, um, keep an eye on me? That's there some crazy rivalry between the GPU and GRU and they want to make me into a spy and send me to the West?"


Jana stared at him for a long while, a look of shock on her face. Gradually the ends of her pretty mouth began to curl and she broke out in laughter. "Who told you this bullshit," she laughed, "you a spy? Oh haha. You are very handsome man and fine pilot, but you a spy? I can't believe you believe this bullshit."


"I was told," John told her, "by a friend... who works for the GPU."


"Ah!" she said in understanding, "and you believe what the GPU tell you?"


"I, um, trust him." John said.


"Then you *are* a fool! Pretty, perhaps, and good in bed but a fool nonetheless. The GPU say nothing but lies. That is their job."


"And this GRU?" he challenged.


"Of course, they lie too! They are Military Intelligence. What do you expect?"


"And *do* you work for them?" John asked.


"If I answer no," she said, "and the GPU lie, then you won't believe me anyway. If I said yes, you'll think you've been set up and be angry also, yes?" John nodded. "Then what can I say? Either way I'm a paid whore for intelligence service!" Her tone had sharpened and John could see her eyes flash with anger.


"Just tell me the truth! Are you being paid to watch me?"


"Fool!" her voice rose, "we're all being paid to watch each other! Yes, John, the GRU ask me for report. The GPU ask for report from Chernagakov. Someone is making report about me. One day you maybe be asked to report on, who fucking knows who? Is the fucking system, John. Is paranoia, is fucking stinks, but that is the way it is. You get by, John, by learning this and making the best out of it. You wise up and learn to bend the system for your own ends. You stay out of the way of trouble. You take your opportunities, understand?"


"Were you 'encouraged' to..."


"Fuck you? You want to know whether someone told me to take you to bed? No-one tell me, John, I do it because I like fucking you. I do this for free and no-one paid me. I'm not whore!" she emphasised, "you should know this. I am Major, not whore!"


Her eyes burned with anger and reproach. They'd moistened with tears that she was trying hard not to reveal. John stood, tried to apologise, but she put up her hand and nodded towards the door. John left in a temper, went to the hangar and snarled at a mechanic. 


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Christmas 1939 was a happy, boozey time for the squadrons at Duxford. Their English hosts ensured that the New Zealanders, Australians, Canadians and South Africans of the Commonwealth squadrons were made to feel completely at home. A Party was held in the town and everyone was welcome. Catalina came along and, after being primed with enough wine, gave everyone a song, much to 'Oz's' embarrassment. Before the party wound down in the wee hours, she'd danced with just about everybody. 


But 'Oz' was pleased she was having a good time. She'd been feeling a little homesick, lately, and 'Oz' had grown concerned. Christmas coincided with Catalina's 38th birthday, and the boys of the squadron had showered her with little gifts. Many of the squadron had taken the crazy French woman into their hearts.


Some had even taken up the challenge of an arm wrestle with her, much to 'Oz's amusement. One of the young pilots complained she'd snapped his wrist, but the Doctor diagnosed a mild sprain. Prospective contestants began to peter out.


She'd applied to join the Women's Auxilliary. Somehow she'd got it into her head they required weapons instructors and she was disappointed to learn she would be taught to drive a lorry. 'Oz' had explained to them that she could 'shoot the eye out of needle' but they were unimpressed. 'Women do not belong in the front line,' they'd explained, 'or shoot guns!'


The day after Christmas the squadron chased a Junkers Ju 88 out into the channel, but it escaped, 'with singed tail feathers' insisted 'Oz.' 


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In Novgorod the airfields were snowed in. A heavy storm had descended and the snowploughs had given up. The aircraft were parked away in the hangars and the mechanics took the opportunity for some routine maintenance.


There was little for the pilots to do and some of them went on leave. Otherwise, there was the frozen river where they could go ice skating.
John visited Benin and Garcia at the University. Benin was suffering from the cold. She told him she didn't know how anyone could live in such a climate. 


Garcia was happy and confident, with the innocence that only babies have. He'd been used to having many different adults handle him. Only 4 month's old, John confirmed he was going to be a pilot.


Benin seemed more content with her situation. John suspected there was another man in her life, a Professor, although he didn't know whether he shared her bed. He felt a pang of jealousy, even though he didn't feel he had a right to. Had it bothered him when he began an affair with Jana while still living with her? 


His argument with Jana had not lasted. Two days later he brought her a chain and pendant, shaped into a Yak 9, and made by a mechanic out of spare aluminium. They could hardly wait until duties had finished for the day.


This time, Jana had stayed not only the night but most of the next day. With the central heating at maximum they hardly wore a stitch of clothing the whole time. 


"You're insatiable!" she'd told him when he'd come up behind her while she was fixing lunch for them. His dick brushed the cheeks of her perfect arse. His hands came up and fondled her breasts. She reached between them and tickled his penis.


"So, why don't you move in?"


"I can't, I won't!"


"Regulations?"


"That, John, and because I don't want to."


"Why?"


"Because," she sighed, "I don't want to clean, always make dinner, have babies..."


"You don't have to. I do my own washing."


"Ah! You say now! But in 6 months, when your friends come they will see I'm not 'proper' housewife. You will feel humiliated..."


"No, I won't!" John insisted.


"That's because you are thinking with that big thing of yours. I know Russian men, I know their, expectations. And I know military. Soldiers are conservative, traditional!"


Her fingers had crawled around his stiffening cock as she was speaking. John's fingers found the moist tangle of her pussy. She grinned as he stroked her prominent clit.


"I'm not like that," John insisted, "I don't care what people think."


"But you... ah... must, John. Is no good... oh... I will not... uh... live with you!" John tried to steer her towards the bed but she resisted. "Here!" she gasped, "from behind me!" John bent his knees as Jana guided him inside her. She bit her lip as he maneuvred slowly up her waiting pussy. "Oh baby!" she cried as he thrust, "uh!" John practically lifted her off her feet as he lunged at her. Grabbing her hips he increased speed as Jana shrieked. A plate fell from the bench, the cups went flying into the sink. John watched that perfect peach of a bottom ripple with the impact. Grunting, another load of his essence squirted deep inside her.


Later, John cleaned up the mess on the floor.


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KATZMAREK ©
