BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 10)


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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John and 'Oz' crept down the network of communications trenches that linked the various positions on hill 666. The ground shook regularly and the exploding heavy shells reminded John of being in an electrical storm. Now and then they'd come across a group of frightened soldiers, their faces were white and their eyes were darting about.


They'd ask them if they knew of the Brunete Battery and they'd get shrugs of indifference. Finally they came to a dead end where a harrassed signalman was bent over a radio. He put up his hand at the question, then pressed his headset harder against his ear.


"What do you want?" an old sergeant asked, "who the fuck are you?"


"The 5th Brunete Battery?" John asked.


"Gone... out there... 'bout 20 metres away. Now fuck off!"


John looked out of the trench to see piles of churned up brown earth and twisted metal. His heart jolted in his chest. "What happened?" he asked the sergeant.


"What do you think happened? It got plastered this morning."


"The crews?"


"How should I know? Use your fucking brain. What do you think happens when a 155mm shell lands on top of you? They sweep the pieces up!"


"Where would the wounded be taken?" 'Oz' asked.


"Aid station at Mora del Ebro, across the river. Now unless you've come to do something else besides ask fool questions..."


John and 'Oz' left the man in peace and headed back towards the river. 


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Of the approximately 230 Brigades in the six armies of the Republic, by September 1938 163 were lead by Communist Commanders and 33 by Anarchists. General Modesto, now supreme commander, was a Communist and 27 of the Brigades in the Army of the Ebro had Communist Brigadiers.


That month, of 7000 promotions throughout the Armies, 5,500 went to Communist Officers. Complaints were rife that joining the PCE was a sure road to advancement in the Officer Corps, regardless of ability.


The PCE had achieved a dominance in wartime that they couldn't achieve at the peacetime ballot box. A Communist Commander could ensure his unit had adequate supplies and the latest weapons when they became available. Anarchist units, by comparison, were often forced to live off the land and arm themselves with captured weapons.


Over General Miaja objections, the red flag was generally flown on the Ebro in preference to the Republican tricolour. In any case, Franco's forces had taken to flying a tricolour of similar appearance, sometimes with the old coat of arms of Castile, Seville and Aragon emblazoned in the centre. At least the red flag caused little confusion.


To Franco's men, the Government Forces were 'The Reds,' in all their literature and communications. Just as the Nationalists, officially, 'The National Front for the Renewal of Spain,' were called 'Falangists' or 'Fascists' by the Popular Front. The Falange (Phalanx) were but one component in Franco's SET coalition, but their blue shirts and 'bundle of arrows' motif came to symbolise the insurrection.


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Pressure was building on Admiral Gorshin on the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya.' The cruiser's floatplane had a range of barely 150km with two people. It required nearly flat conditions to take off and land or, if fired from the ship's catapault, it required the vessel to be sailing into the wind at a speed of approximately 12 knots. The catapault worked by a complicated system of hydraulic rams and compressed air, rather than steam, and was far from reliable.


But flat conditions was precisely what he didn't have, and the window of operations was narrowing. He could take a chance and launch by catapault, gambling on the sea calming by the time it returned, or delay departure until sea conditions were more favourable. This meant pushing the operation perilously close to dawn, and possible discovery. Fatefully, he decided to wait. To get the ship underway might cause confusion for the pilot when he returned. It was a reasonable decision in the circumstances, bearing in mind the technology of the time, and he had no knowledge of 'Early Emil.' Rhykov hadn't been told by his SIM agents, so he merely broadcast the 'all clear' at the appointed time.


Accordingly, at 3am the sea had calmed sufficiently for operations off the water. It took the crew half an hour to swing the plane over the side. The engine was started on deck and the plane and pilot together were lowered down the side by the crane. It was a dangerous maneuvre, but saved time. Gorshin breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the single red tail beacon of the aircraft rise into the sky.


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At 2am, the SIM agent known as Gonzales drove the little, black Molotova sedan into a ditch. It was pitch black and, in accordance with blackout instructions, the car's headlights were hooded and dim. 


Nevertheless, it took all of Rhykov's persuasive powers to prevent Gregory Retvizan from using his bayonet on the hapless driver. The car had broken its axle, so the two GPU men jogged off towards the Bana leaving Gonzales with the wreck.


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Hans Joachim Marseilles was already something of a poster boy for the German Condor Legion. The man was young, barely 21 at the time, and handsome. He was also one of the most remarkable fighter pilots of all time, shooting down no fewer than 158 aircraft before meeting his death on the Eastern front in World War 2. His French surname came from his Huegenot ancestors, who had fled to Berlin during the 17th century.


He styled himself on Baron von Richthofen, 'the Red Baron' of World War 1. The Red Baron had a habit of hunting alone, of taking off at the crack of dawn and returning, often adding a couple of kills to his total. Marseilles, as Adjutant of Werner Moelders' Staffel, was indulged by his chief and given his head. He returned to Germany in early 1939 having shot down 8 Republican aircraft. He was 'Early Emil' of the Ebro.


Flying from an airfield at Valderrobres in the Ciurana river area, the Staffel called themselves the 'Hummels' or 'Bumble Bees.' As usual, Marseilles rose at about 4.30am. His groundcrew had already run up the Daimler-Benz DB601 engine of the Messerschmitt and the fighter sat clattering on the flight line waiting for its pilot.


With two 7.92mm MG17 machine guns and two 20mm MGFF cannons, the Messerschmitt Bf109E model was a powerful machine indeed. Marseilles had found some rich pickings down at the Puenta de Bana. He decided to pay another call, particularly to what he guessed was a landing area for flying boats. He hoped to catch one on the water.


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Mora del Ebro was a depressing place. It had once been a sleepy village laid out around a typical Spanish town square. The Ebro ran right up to the houses; there was a watermill, a tannery and a shoe factory, upon which the habitants were proud.


But like so many of the villages along the Ebro, it had been devastated. The stone church had been destroyed by the CNT, the tannery by stukas and the watermill had been demolished by tank shells from a Nationalist foray.


An aid station had been constructed out of the empty buildings and the red cross prominently painted on the roofs. This didn't stop it being strafed occasionally by Condor Legion aircraft, of course.


The station performed basic triage. The more seriously wounded were transported down the coast to hospitals at Amposta and Tortosa. A French passenger vessel, the former Messengeries Maritimes Line's 'Indochine' had been converted into a hospital ship and was anchored near Tarragona. Already beds on the ship were at a premium.


John and 'Oz' searched fruitlessly for Benin among the overcrowded buildings and the harrassed staff. A Spanish doctor suggested Amposta, but only, John suspected, to get rid of them.


The quickest way from Mora to Amposta was by the river. 'Oz' hired a boat and John paddled, having some experience with fast-flowing rivers from his native New Zealand. Within an hour, they were at Amposta.


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By her second day at the Hospital Benin was able to move around, albeit with the aid of a stout stick. She suffered from a couple of broken ribs, caused by the compression wave of the explosion, shrapnel wounds to her legs and concussion. She was nauseous, sore and miserable. Very few of her gun crew had survived the direct hit. One, a shell handler called Hernandez, was in the same Hospital grievously wounded and wasn't expected to survive.


It was getting on towards nightfall when they all heard the rumble of artillery. Unlike previous bombardments, this went on and on and there was no-doubt something was happening on the Ebro.


The patients at the crowded hospitals at Amposta reflected their fear in glazed looks. Otherwise both they and the staff tried to ignore it. At about that time, Benin heard that two men had come looking for her.


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General Prieto was perhaps not the wisest choice to command the wounded de Llano's army. Perhaps General Franco was under some political pressure from the Falange? From this distance, it's hard to say for sure. What is known, however, is that Prieto was an enthusiastic Falangist and fervant admirer of Adolf Hitler.


The man was a bully, a torturer and a sadist. Like Herman Goering, he liked fancy uniforms and glittering occasions where he was the centre of attention. What he was not, though, was a particularly competent General.


He'd risen quickly through the ranks of the Falangist Militia by dint of his very real personal courage under fire. He'd lead his batalion against a Republican stronghold at the Battle of Brunete and captured it, some say single-handed although that was probably an exaggeration.


In any case, Franco appointed him commander of de Llano's army and offered him the elite Foreign Legion as well.


His task was a limited attack on Hill 666. Specifically, he was to capture the outposts, reinforce them, then use them as a stepping stone. His men were to creep forward during an artillery bombardment, then make a sudden charge over 100 metres or so.


This wasn't good enough for Prieto, however. The Foreign Legion was to take Hill 666 by storm. 'Artillery would only wake up the Reds.' Accordingly, he cancelled his part of the general artillery preparation and ordered his infantry into a massed charge.


Within an hour nearly 50% of his infantry were casualties and he had nearly wrecked de Llano's army. The Foreign Legioneers, the finest infantry in the Nationalist army, fighting hand to hand, had gradually overwhelmed the Republican defenders and driven a wedge into the lines to the West, however.


But it was Moscardo's armour that posed the biggest threat and it was the tanks, rather than Prieto's attack, that caused Miaja to withdraw back across the river. Fortunately, Modesto had prevented the Nationalist Cavalry from threatening the road to Tarragona, thanks to the Anarchist Brigade 'Land and Liberty.' Their part in the attack was blurred later. Modesto, of course, was a Communist.


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"G'day!" John said.


"G'day!" 'Oz' echoed.


"Idiots"" Benin said, aghast, "what the Hell do you think you're doing? You should be half way to the South Pacific not running around in the middle of a battle. How the fuck are you going to get out? The trains have stopped, you going to swim?"


"Hey, slow..."


"You're a fool John Greenhaugh of New Zealand..."


"...down!"


"I won't slow down if I don't want to," she continued, "why didn't you catch the boat?" Her voice was driven by fatigue and pain. It rose to a squeek. She stumbled and two strong arms caught her. She subsided as she sank into the warm reassurance of John's chest.


"I'm 'Oz'," said 'Oz.'


"Hi," Benin said, but she didn't feel like talking anymore.


"So what is the plan, John?" 'Oz' asked. "How do we get out?"


"Dunno... steal a boat, maybe? From that bay South of the Ebro delta?"


"Puenta de la Bana? Suppose! Hop a coaster to Barcelona?"


"Is blockaded," Benin said, "nothing's getting in or out. French border's closed too, you have to cross the Pyrenees."


"Yeah, well, your lady's not going to walk over the mountains, is she?" 'Oz' said, "not in that condition. We're going to have to go by boat all the way to France."


"Can you make it?" John asked.


"I must get back to the army," she told them, "my class duty."


"Miaja's bugging out," 'Oz' said, "I heard they're pulling back over the river."


"They can't!" Benin said, alarmed, "if their tanks reach the coastal plains nothing can stop them taking Tarragona and moving into Catalonia!"


"Yep!" said 'Oz,' "that'll be right! Miaja's given up, Modesto's going to have to abandon Tarragona or be surrounded. Lerida will have to be evacuated leaving the road open right to Barcelona."


"Then I will stay and die with my comrades!" Benin declared.


"Why?" asked 'Oz.'


"Yes, why?" John said, "you can't even walk!"


"I can fire a gun."


"Y'think Hitler's going to stop here?" 'Oz' intervened, "Austria, Sudetenland, Memel, Czecho-Slovakia, maybe Poland? France? Russia? Y'think the bastard's going to be satisfied until he's running the whole of Europe? Look, I heard France and Britain are pretending there's no German soldiers here. I heard that Blum and Chamberlain just suck up everything Hitler tells them. 'Oh no, Mr Chamberlain, we are not sending our tanks and aeroplanes to Spain. Our fucking battleships are not parked off Barcelona, and if they are they're on a fucking goodwill mission! We don't give a fuck about the Polish corridor, Danzig, oh no! We just want our fucking lebensraum so we can be a fucking great empire again.' They won't wake up until they're eating fucking sauerkraut and goosesteppimg around Hyde Park and the Eifel Tower. Someone needs to explain what's happening here, Benin. Don't worry about the politicians, they have their heads up their arses. You got to tell the people that this isn't about Fascism or Communism, but a good honest to goodness land grab by an unprincipled dictator."


"Shit, 'Oz'!" said John in astonishment, "that's a good speech. I didn't know you were so... thoughtful about things."


"So," Benin said, "why don't you tell them?"


"We all need to, every fucking one of us needs to get out there and tell the ordinary people that they're next on the menu. There's plenty enough dead, lady, and plenty more before Franco runs the shop. Your death will not make a blind bit of difference, but maybe your living will."


"I don't know..."


"Fuck! Slap her one, Kiwi, then grab her arse and carry her to a boat!"


"You dare!" Benin looked at John coldly.


"C'mon! It's only 3 or 4 kilometres to the Bana from here. Y'think you can carry her?"


"No problem!" John said. Benin suffered herself to be picked up by John's strong arms. She perched on his back and John adjusted her weight until he was comfortable. "50 kilos soaking wet," he told her, "you ought to eat more."


"Just mind my legs, you big ox!" With that, they set out into the waning light of evening towards the coast.


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"So where's the plane?" asked Gregory.


"It'll be here," Rhykov told him, "Gorshin wouldn't leave us behind."


"He might not have any choice!"


"In which case we head North and try to make it through the Pyrenees."


"Easier said than done. The place is crawling with Franco's goons."


"Gibraltar, then?"


"Border's closed. The British are turning everyone away. You try to get into the harbour and the Royal Navy tow you back out again."


"Then we just hope the floatplane arrives before dawn or we'll have to find some other way of getting out."


"Is this an example of GPU planning these days? 'Some other way?'"


"Maybe we should head to Barcelona?" said Rhykov, ignoring the comment, "I'm sure Negrin has a plane waiting!"


"Oh, I'm sure he does! C'mon, let's get under cover. We can watch for the plane from that little hill.


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"Ok," John puffed, "there's an old fishing shed down there. Perhaps we can wait there till morning?"


"Put me down," moaned Benin, "I'd rather walk to it. My legs have gone numb, you've cut off the circulation." When John let her down, however, the pain came back with a vengeance. Wincing, she leaned on her lover for support. 'Oz' took the other side and between them they half carried her to the hut.


The fishing shed was full of militia and boatmen. Smoke hung like a shroud inside almost smothering the single tallow lamp. Some people made room for the newcomers. An old man gave Benin a moth-eaten blanket.


"Anyone know where we can get a boat?" asked 'Oz.'


"Where you going?" someone asked.


"France." A few of the men chuckled.


"Why not Egypt, Greece?" the first man suggested, sarcastically.


"France will do."


"Impossible!" one said, "Franco's men, the Italians, they shoot everything. They tell us we can't go and fish. Fancy that, an Italian telling me I can't fish in *my* waters with *my* boat, fuckers! How am I going to live, huh? Feed my family? This finger," he continued, "this finger I will shove up Mussolini's arse!"


"Hey, the lady!" 


"My apologies, senorita!"


"Why not a bayonet?" suggested Benin.


"There's no room with Hitler stuck up there," another fisherman suggested. "I'd use them for fish bait but I think the Bonita would spit them out."


"Sharks? They're not particular."


"Sharks, then. Good idea! We feed the cunts to the sharks. My apologies, senorita."


'Oz,' John and Benin settled down and tried to get some sleep.


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The sky had already softened to a blue glow by the time Rhykov and Retvizan heard the floatplane. They scrambled together up to the top of the little hill to watch the black dot circle towards the Bana.


"Better late than never," Rhykov muttered.


"It's too small!" said Gregory, "How can it take both of us?"


"Ah, I have it planned. We take out the rear seat and one of us can slide into the fusilage behind..."


"That will be you, Rhykov."


"Only, we have to take the seatbelt out with the seat so whoever is in the rear cockpit has to crouch and..."


"Crouch with no seatbelt? This is what you call planning? Is he a good pilot?"


"I hope so!"


"Shit!" muttered Gregory.


"With the tanks only half full it should lift off with all of us!"


"It's not the take off that concerns me!"


The plane circled low then splashed down, making a textbook landing. It taxied towards a pontoon anchored near the stony beach, motor coughing and spluttering. A seaman in a rowboat tied the plane to the pontoon using the shackle attached to the plane's single float.


The two Russian spies jogged down to the water's edge.


"What's that?" said Rhykov pointing towards the mountains in alarm.


"Shit! German fighter! Over the sea wall and hit the deck, quick!" The two men vaulted the wall and lay on their bellies.


They heard the whine of the Daimler-Benz over the clattering coming from the floatplane's engine. It grew louder and louder. Retvizan listened to the familiar sound of the German's machine guns and the slower booming of it's cannon. They both heard a commotion around them, shouts and screams and someone fired a sub machine gun at the enemy aircraft. They heard the splashing of rounds hitting the water. Rhykov peeked over the wall and saw geysers erupting in a line heading towards their precious aeroplane.


"I don't believe it! I think he's missed it," he told Retvizan.


"He'll probably come around again. He won't miss a second time. You married?"


"Yes, why?"


"Kids?"


"2 girls. Why do you want to know?"


"Wait here!" With that, Retvizan jumped up and ran onto the beach. He drew a bead on the circling fighter and fired short, deliberate bursts from his PPD.


"What are you doing, you silly fuck!" yelled Rhykov.


"Stay down!" Retvizan yelled back.


The Messerschmitt streaked in again, so low it kicked up spray from the wash of its spinning prop. Retvizan fired a long burst at it, before dropping the spent magazine and clicking in another. Rhykov saw the fighter veer, it appeared to be coming straight at them. "Get down!" he yelled at his friend, before his voice was lost in the noise from the fighter's guns.


Rhykov dropped down behind the wall as the fighter swept overhead. Not far off, from an old fishing hut, a group of men were firing from the shelter of the building. Two men had machine guns, three or four had rifles. They swung them around as the Messerchmitt roared past, the aircraft going much too fast to be tracked with small arms.


But, Rhykov noted, the Bf109 was trailing vapour from one of its wing radiators. Clearly Retvizan, or one of the militiaman, had scored a lucky hit. He leapt up to congratulate his friend. He stood still in shock.


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When the German fighter appeared, the militiamen, together with 'Oz' and John, rushed outside. They saw the plane circling, then make a run for a floatplane ancored in the harbour. John and 'Oz' opened fire with their PPDs, hoping to upset the German's aim. The others joined in with their rifles.


John recognised a man nearby behind the seawall as one of the Russians he'd seen earlier. After the plane had flown away, the Russian stood up and ran to a body lying on the beach. 'Oz' trotted over to see if he could help and John followed.


The Russian was lightly slapping the corpse's face, although he was plainly dead. One round had hit him in the chest above his heart. John thought the man was probably dead before he hit the pebbles. He recognised the dead man as the other Russian.


"I'm sorry," he told the man.


"Is what he wanted. He saved the plane so I could go home. Retvizan was like that. Always thinking of others, never of himself." The Russian's face was streaked with tears. "You help please? He always said he wanted to be buried at the place he'd fallen. Not one for ceremonies, no funerals, 'just dig a hole and put me in.' Is all he wanted."


John and 'Oz' helped the Russian dig a hole for Gregory Retvizan above the high tide mark. A withered olive tree offered a little shade. The Russian, Rhykov, said the tree was probably as old as Retvizan and it was appropriate.


They started to roll the body into the hole when an old Spanish seaman approached. He pulled a pipe from between his yellowing teeth and pointed into the hole.


"Hey! Got room in there for one more?"


"Why?" Rhykov answered the man, irritated, "are you unwell?"


"Not for me," the man grinned, "the pilot of that thing out there. German bullet took his head off!"


"What? The floatplane?" The seaman nodded. "Shit!" Rhykov spat and threw his shovel at the tree.


"Problem?" 'Oz' asked him.


"I have no pilot to fly me back to the ship."


"That so?" 'Oz' said, scratching his chin, "hmm, how many people can that hold?"


"It was taking the three of us, why?" Rhykov explained.


"He's a pilot," 'Oz' said pointing at John, "he'd fly it... but."


"But?"


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KATZMAREK © 