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Subject: {ASSM} (Rewritten and Serialised) Butterfly and Falcon (Part 7) By Katzmarek (Hist, rom,Mf,MF)
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Date: Sun, 04 Dec 2005 05:10:01 -0500
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 Part 7

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<1st attachment, "Butterfly and Falcon07.txt" begin>



   BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 7)

   By KATZMAREK(c)

   -----------------------------------------

   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.

   ----------------------------------------

   "Hey,"'Oz' asked the man, "we're looking for a girl."

   "Who isn't?" replied the man.

   "A special one, this man's wife," 'Oz' continued, pointing at John. 
"She's supposed to be in a gun crew here, you heard of her?"

   "Up here?" the man said in surprise, "he should take better care of her.
You a spy?"

   "No," 'Oz' shrugged, "I'm an Australian."

   "Good, don't like spies."

   "Hey," John called, "what about Benin?"

   "He a spy?" the man asked.

   "No, a New Zealander.  What about the man's missus?" 'Oz' asked.

   "This 'Benin,' a New Zealander?"

   "Spanish, 'Mujeres Libres'," 'Oz' explained.

   "Ah, a lesbian!  Does she do men?  What's her price?  Is she pretty? 
Hey lads?" the man called, "anyone seen a whore serving a gun?"

   "Y'think I'd be in the fucking infantry?" one soldier replied, "fucking
artillery get all the perks."

   "Yeah," another said, "anyone seen a dead gunner?"

   "I did, dead drunk!" said the first man.

   "Yeah, everyone ducks when our guns go off.  Except the Fascists,"
muttered someone else.

   John and 'Oz' tipped their caps and wandered off.

   -----------------------------------

   'The 'Tchervonaya Ukrainiya' is therefore ordered to reverse course, via
Lisbon where you will rendezvous with the Tanker 'Alma' and the support
ship 'Anadyr,' before proceeding back to the Baltic Fleet's anchorage,
Kronshtadt,' Admiral Gorshin read, 'no exception has been made to the
international treaty banning the passage of Soviet Naval vessels through
the Dardenelles into the Black Sea.'

   "A pity," the Admiral told Rhykov, "it's rather nice, the Black Sea,
this time of year.  I have a dascha near Poti.  My wife, Katka, loves it
there."

   "Admiral?" Rhykov wrinkled his brow, "I wonder if we can pause for a
while off the Ebro Delta?"

   "Why?"

   "We have some agents...  we have not heard from them for some time.  One
of them is a good friend..."

   "You have friends in the GPU?" Gorshin asked in mock surprise.

   "We have loyalty," Rhykov said, stung, "loyalty to our superiors, to our
comrades, to the service.  Would you leave any of your crew behind on some
foreign soil?"

   "Even if I was ordered to abandon them?"

   "Yes."

   "No," Gorshin grinned, "of course not.  I would do everything in my
power...  even if it meant bringing home a corpse.  And I would expect the
same if one of my children was killed in active service.  I will speak to
the Engineers.  I'm sure our engines are due to break down soon.  A delay
of three or four days would seem to be most likely."

   "I'm surprised you've never been caught.  Your ships' Political Officers
can't be very diligent in their duties."

   "My ships' Political Officers are Party men, not Navy.  As such they can
be bullshitted to, as few Russians haven't a clue about the sea.  Stalin
has never so much as paddled a korabl across a pond.  There are advantages
in being a land power rather than a sea power."

   "Your seaplane, Admiral, is it servicable, by any chance?"

   "My Air Officer would fill in the details, but I understand it still
works.  Best possible combination, he tells me, German airframe and Russian
engine.  A Heinkel, you know?"

   "I know, a KR1.  It should have the range for what I need."

   "Oh?  And what do you need it for?"

   The two men's heads moved together in conspiracy.

   --------------------------------------

   The newcomer crept quietly into the dugout, which served as the Howitzer
crew's rest area.  He sought out the Gun Sergeant who was dozing in his
alcove.  He gently put his hand on his shoulder and shook him awake.

   "Get the crew together," he whispered, "we're going to move the gun."

   "Where?  Who says?" he said, "and who the fuck are you?"

   "I'm Gregory," the newcomer told him, "I'm with the Russian Secret
Service.  We must get these guns moved.  There's going to be an attack in
the morning."

   "Who says?"

   "Intelligence!  Fascist planes have been arriving at their airfields
over the last few days.  Their armour have moved up into ready lines. 
Infantry, everything, is moving up to the front.  They have all these
positions marked," he told them throwing around his arm, "we think you'll
be attacked by aircraft at dawn."

   "How do they know?"

   "How do you think they don't know?  Anyone can wander over there or
here," he said, "just dress as a peasant and heard a flock of sheep.  We
have new positions prepared further back.  You need to move tonight while
it's dark...  and no noise.  Here are your orders...  from General Miaja."

   "Not from the Russians?" asked the Gun Sergeant.

   "General Miaja is no lover of Russians," the man told him, "but even he
can see common sense.  Come, we'll find some more men to give you a hand
with the gun."

   Benin was roused by the sound of activity and hushed voices.  Stumbling,
she grabbed her kit and abandoned her little home.  Already a team of
sweating men were dragging the heavy gun out of its emplacement.  She tried
to lend a hand but was pushed away.

   "Hey," the man said, "you don't look like a mule to me."

   The big Russian was directing the evacuation, exhorting everyone to be
quiet.  Even exaggerrated secrecy was important, he said, because spies
were everywhere.

   The GPU agent was well into his fifties, big, like a Russian bear, with
a long beard.  He wore a shabby khaki battledress with crossed bandoliers,
puttees and boots, and a black militia beret with a red star.  He slung his
PPD sub-machine gun over his shoulder like someone well-acquainted with the
use of it.  A bayonet was thrust through his belt like a pirate.  He
spotted and approached her.

   "You lost, little girl?"

   "No," she told him, "you?  Russian?"

   "I'm sorry, Madam," he said, "it's just you look a little on the small
side to be in a gun crew."

   "I can pull my weight!"

   "Possibly, but not as much, I imagine, as that big Ox over there," he
answered, indicating the Gun Sergeant.

   "I'm the gun layer," she told him, "not as it's any business of yours."

   "I apologise," he told her, "my name is Gregory Retvizan.  You remind me
of a little French Girl I knew in Siberia during the Russian Civil War. 
Tough bitch, she was."

   "What happened to her?"

   "Married a General.  At least he eventually became one.  Lucky bastard!
You married?"

   "My man," she told him, "is a fighter pilot.  Perhaps you know where he
is?"

   "What squadron?"

   "1st Escuadrillo de Mosca."

   "Disbanded, I think...  um, mostly foreign pilots, from memory.  In
which case he would have been sent home."

   "Sent home?"

   "Yes.  The Spanish were reallocated...  the foreigners were all sent to
Barcelona to be returned to their countries of origin.  Except the Germans
and Italians, of course.  They were sent to..."

   "Yes, yes.  So you think think he's gone home?"

   "Depends.  Where's he from?"

   "New Zealand."

   "Where?  Is that a country?  Where the fuck is New Zealand?"

   "South Pacific.  Somewhere near Australia, I think."

   "Ah!  A long way to come for someone else's fight.  Should have stayed
there, silly fuck!"

   "You're here!"

   "Oh yeah!  Got told I'd volunteered and to sign this bit of paper.  Then
I wind up in Bilbao on a coal barge with a cargo of Tanks in the hold.  I'm
too old for this shit."

   "We're all too old for this shit," Benin said, "even the kids over
there. They're all too old.  Old before their time."

   "Aye, true enough," Retvizan sighed, "they've seen more than is proper."

   "Do you people really think the Republic can win?" she asked.

   "My people are, how should I say, in Moscow, not in Madrid or
Barcelona," he explained, "it's not about winning.  It's about dragging
Germany deeper and deeper into a fight.  It's about showing Britain and
France, even the United States, that the real enemy is Fascism, not
Communism.  It's about testing our military hardware and tactics against
their's.  It's about preventing the Nazis from stacking another country
against the Soviet Union.  Moscow doesn't give a shit what Government runs
things here, just so long as they don't ally themselves with Germany and
Italy."

   "So?" Benin said, "perhaps you should be talking to Franco?"

   "Maybe," Gregory told her, "but I don't think he's taking our calls at
the moment."

   "You have no sympathy, no solidarity with my people?" she asked angrily.

   "Listen," he replied, "we didn't start this, your politicians fucked it
up.  You let Franco in the door when you should have crushed him like a
bug. Azana, Zamorra and all the rest saw it coming and instead of
assassinating the bastard when you had the chance, you let him go to Tetuan
and raise the Army of Africa.  Then you let the Anarchists and Trotskyites
run riot in Barcelona...  half the fucking militias in this place aren't
under anyone's control.  Half these boys have no idea what they're fighting
for and, given half a chance, will run back home.  What a fuck up!  But..."
Retvizan moved closer, "if I can teach a few of them how to stay alive, I
will.  That's about as much 'solidarity' as I can give them.  Now, girl, if
you can get the fuck up there before dawn you might stay alive long enough
to find your man.  Otherwise, the only solidarity you'll have will be with
a 6 foot deep trench."

   ------------------------------------------

   The four men sat under the catapult mounted in the waist of the
'Tchervonya Ukrainiya.' Above them the wing of the floatplane gave them
some shade from the Mediterranean sun.  Close by, hanging nonchalantly by
the rail, Admiral Gorshin's orderly kept an eye open for unwanted visitors.

   "We're supposed to be getting a replacement in a few months, a Beriev
KOR 1, all metal, faster, and with increased range.  The Heinkel is wooden,
old, slow rate of climb..." explained Senior Lieutenant Konstanin, the
cruiser's Air Operations Officer.

   "But it will get us there, land and take off again, and get back to the
ship?" asked Rhykov.

   "Providing the Captain can get us within, say, 50 kilometres.  Providing
the swell is no more than half a metre, it should land and take off
safely."

   "That would mean you'll have to land inside the 'Punta de la Bana,' in
enclosed waters, Valery, do you think you can get her in?  The 'Bana' will
be full of coastal traffic supplying the army."

   "No problem," replied Lieutenant Valery Shchpagin, the pilot.

   "In the dark?" asked Rhykov.  The other three looked at the GPU agent in
consternation.

   "You're not serious?" said Konstantin.

   "We can't be observed," Rhykov said, "orders!"

   "But he could hole a float, run aground, ram a boat, it's suicide!"
protested Konstantin.

   "You could lose your way!" suggested Gorshin.

   "Can you mark us a landing zone?" asked the pilot, "flares, torches in
half a dozen boats should do it.  A coloured light to guide me in,
perhaps?"

   "It could be arranged," Rhykov said, scratching his jaw.  "Plot
something on a chart for me and I'll contact the shore."

   "You can't get us in closer?" Konstantin asked the Admiral.

   "No," he said, shaking his head, "we must stay well outside in
international waters or we'll risk being attacked."

   "Can we not ask the Republican Navy for help?  Perhaps they can send a
Destroyer to ferry our people out to us?" suggested the worried Air
Officer, "it's just too foolhardy..."

   "I've talked to Cartagena," Rhykov said, "they say they can't spare any.
Too busy with the blockade of the Gibraltar Straight."

   "That's bullshit!" said Gorshin, "but they have been rather timid about
sailing within aircraft range of Majorca, lately.  The Italians have some
of their new torpedo bombers based there."

   "Too fucking timid about everything, if you ask me," muttered Konstanin.

   "Perhaps!  But they don't have that many effective warships to share
around." Gorshin said.  "We'll have to use the floatplane, if the pilot's
sure he can carry out the operation safely."

   "I can!" answered the pilot.

   "Well!" sighed Konstanin, "we'll have to lower it over the side with the
crane.  Can't use the catapult at anchor.  Cover story?"

   "Mail drop, air observation, some such bullshit.  Your spooks in on
this?" Gorshin asked Rhykov.

   "They won't notice anything, Admiral, he told him, tapping his nose,
"Retvizan, Vestuptevich, they are popular men in the GPU..."

   "We'll get them out...  one way or another, Rhykov.  Just get them down
to the 'Punta' on time."

   "I will, Admiral, I will."

   ----------------------------------

   On hill 666 the Republicans could all hear the Stukas coming.  Just
before dawn, a flight or two of Dorniers and Heinkel 111s had dropped a few
bombs on the lines as a 'wake up.' Now it was time for the Stukas, the
Junkers Ju 87 dive bombers.

   But this was a different army, now, than even a month before.  Coastal
ships had brought tons of war materiel, 40mm Oerlikon anti-aircraft guns
and high-angle 12.7mm Skvass Machine Guns.  Other artillery had arrived,
45mm anti-tank guns and more 75mm Howitzers.  Small arms ammunition was now
abundant and food and clothing had been stockpiled.  All was labouriously
hauled up to the Republican positions at night and in secret.

   For this was to be the last flick of the tail of the Russian effort to
salvage the Republican cause.  The reason was the sudden realisation by the
Military Command and their Russian Military Advisors that the Nationalists
had few tactical options on the Ebro.

   Their armour needed relatively level ground to be effective.  They
needed to gain the wide valley of the Ebro and take the town of Tortosa if
they were to cut off the Republicans and force them to retreat.  The only
logical route was either via the Tarragona road or the Amposta.  Both ways
meant running the gauntlet of Hill 666.

   Hill 666 was practically impregnable to direct assault, unless the
Nationalists were prepared to accept heavy casaulties.  The two armies had
about the same number of troops, although the Nationalists had more armour
and command of the skies.  What seemed easy in the weeks following the
withdrawal of the International Brigades, now was considerably more
problematic for the Nationalist cause.

   -----------------------------------------

   Despite all the meticulous planning, it was the Falangists who stumbled
at the altar.  In the early hours of the morning, a flight of ten Tupolev
DB2 bombers took off from Tarragona.  Led by an intrepid regular Red Army
Air Force Captain, Yuri Blochin, the flight took a wide circuit through the
valleys of the Sierra de Monserrat at low height, and came into Gandesa
from the North.  A pathfinder, piloted by Blochin himself, dropped a flare
near De Llano's headquarters, and, one by one, the DB2s dropped bomb after
bomb on the target.  De Llano was, reportedly, blown out of his camp
stretcher and many of his staff were killed.  The General himself was
wounded and Yague took over command.

   The Italian Legiero on Majorca was supposed to raid the airfields at
Tarragona, but, apparently, no-one had signalled them the time of the
coming offensive.

   The Nationalists were unaware of the presence of the new anti-aircraft
guns.  Nationalist Dive bombers, ever vulnerable in the dive, were to face
determined opposition for the first time.

   The Republicans had built crude dummy wooden guns in the old artillery
positions and covered them with camoflage.  As the stukas howled down onto
these decoys, they believed it was all too easy, too easy indeed.

   ------------------------------------

   "Hey!  You two!" the man shouted.  He wore the black cap and shoulder
flashes of the Military Police.  "You two!  Where are you supposed to be?"

   'Oz' nudged John to keep quiet, he'd do the talking.  "Dunno," he told
the Officer, "we just arrived from Barcelona.  Thought you needed a hand,"
he smiled.

   "You foreigners?" the MP said squinting at the two.

   "Yeah, missed the boat."

   "Follow me to the General Headquarters for processing," he commanded,
"you can't wander around the front line." Reluctantly, the two friends
trudged after the policeman.

   The headquarters was a series of camoflaged tents set in a deep ravine.
A spider's web of telephone lines crept out and wound up out of the valley
on improvised wooden poles.  Staff officers strode purposefully from tent
to tent carrying maps and papers.  John and 'Oz' were directed to a large
tent, the Police Centre.

   "You come to fight?" the Officer asked.

   "Yes sir!" said 'Oz.'

   "Infantry?"

   "Pilots!"

   The Policeman laughed, "you expect to find planes to fly here?"

   "No sir!" 'Oz' replied, "we've been demobbed.  1st Escuadrillo de Mosca.
Couldn't leave without saying goodbye to our old friends the Fascists, now,
could we?"

   "Perhaps," a small man sitting in the corner of the tent, unoticed by
the two men, spoke up.  "Perhaps the anti-aircraft people could use them?
As fighter pilots they ought to be able to estimate altitude and distance,
type of aircraft, that sort of thing?"

   "Hmm, can you?" the Officer asked.

   "Like that!" 'Oz' said, flicking his fingers.

   "Can you prepare some orders?  Secondment as Air Liaison Officers,
maybe?" the Policeman asked the little man.

   So it was that, as Benin heard the drone of the first stukas on the
morning of the offensive, John was no more than half a kilometre away
watching them through binoculars.

   -----------------------------------------

   The 40mm guns opened up too early and began pumping shells into an empty
sky.  John complained to the Air Observer that the stukas were still too
high, but the man just shrugged.  He said he hadn't ordered anything and
that the gunners were pleasing themselves.

   The stukas, though, appeared to ignore the fire and came down onto the
decoy artillery positions.  The machine-gunners were more disciplined than
their Oerlikon cousins and held their fire.  Then, as each aircraft
levelled out after releasing their bomb, the Skvass guns opened a furious
rattling.  The second aircraft appeared to stagger in flight, dipped its
wing, rolled over and dove straight into the ground.  If John could hear
it, a general roar began to erupt around the army as the news was passed
from rifle pit to rifle pit.

   Benin heard the stuka's engine falter and die, followed by a dull boom
as it smashed into the ground.  She couldn't help but smile as those around
her cheered and clapped.

   Their gun was dug into a revettement of earth and sandbags, the whole
covered in camoflage.  Retvizan slipped in under the netting to see the
crew.

   "You know your grid?" he asked Benin.

   "Of course," she told him, "you're the sixth Officer this morning to ask
that.  Do you think I'm stupid?"

   "We're all stupid," he replied, "but if those panzers get through to the
river we'll all be cooked liver as well."

   "They won't," she was adamant, "you hear they got a stuka?"

   "Saw it," he told her, "they're still coming, but they're releasing
their bombs a good deal higher than before.  Another one had their tail
feathers singed...  crash landed back towards Gandesa.  We have a couple of
Air Force Officers at our Air Observation Post," he explained,
"foreigners," he looked sideways at Benin, "an Australian and...  a New
Zealander!"

   "What?" Benin spun around.

   ---------------------------------------
   (C) KATZMAREK

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