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Subject: {ASSM} (Rewritten and Serialised) Butterfly and Falcon (Part 8) By Katzmarek (Hist, rom,Mf,MF)
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 Part 8

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<1st attachment, "Butterfly and Falcon8.txt" begin>

BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 8)

   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.

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

   Yague's offensive down the Tarragona road stalled by mid-morning amid
furious fire from hill 666 and fresh minefields laid during the previous
nights.  The valley was soon littered with burnt out tanks and the remains
of their German and Spanish crews.  Clearly, while the Republicans were in
possession of the hill, an advance to the Ebro was out of the question.

   However, mindful of the many semi-trained conscripts in his army, Miaja
wisely refused to take advantage of the Falangist setback and would not
counter attack.  It was far easier for his army to remain entrenched and
defend.  That left the initiative to Franco's Generals.

   This rankled with his Russian advisors; not the first or last time he
was in conflict with his Soviet sponsors.  The Russians seemed more
willing, apparently, to spill Spanish blood than General Miaja.

   For, virtually unopposed by Republican fighters, Sperrle's Condor Legion
relentlessly hammered the army with wave after wave of dive and high level
bombers.  The Italians, late to the party, finally raided the Tarragona
airfields with Savoia-Marchetti and Fiat bombers.

   Benin took shelter in the crew's dugout for the third time that morning.
Low flying Messerschmitts, Heinkel 70s and Henschels skimmed in, sometimes
to strafe, but also to deposit a single bomb with pinpoint accuracy.  Such
were the nature of the fortifications that only a direct hit was liable to
knock them out.

   The AA positions were the priority.  Systematically, the strafing
fighters sought them out for the dive bombers to kill.  The Republicans
learned to hold their fire the hard way, but it must be only a matter of
time before the guns, so labouriously hauled up to their positions by hand,
would be destroyed.

   She was proud of her gun crew.  In the bitter fight for the road, they'd
worked almost as the limbs of one body; loading, aiming, firing in rhythm.
She waited for the shouts; 'clear,' 'clear,' 'clear,' the calls that each
of the crew had performed their task and were clear of the recoil.  A
mistake could see a crewman hit as the gun leapt back upon firing.  They
had to rely on each man knowing their job.  They proved that was the case,
they were a good team.

   But their old gun was tired.  Any gun has a service life, after which
the barrel lining needs replacing.  The rifling wears and doesn't grip the
shell as well.  'Windage' occurs when the gasses are permitted to escape
between the shell and barrel.  All shells wobble in flight, but that from a
worn gun can sometimes even tumble, making accuracy pretty much a matter of
chance.  Their gun had exceeded its service life, but there was little
chance it could be replaced.

   The shells themselves were often duds.  Some of them were so old, the
bursters or the charges had deteriorated.  Of those shells that would
explode, at least half of them littered the mudflats.  The ground was too
soft for the detonators.

   The Russian effort at supplying the Republic was slowing down.  Many of
the armaments Miaja received were from old stocks, often stockpiled for
disposal by the Red Army.  That didn't improve the General's opinion of the
Russians.

   However, in mitigation, a Soviet grain ship, the Baku, had recently been
torpedoed by Falangist Destroyers in the Meditterranean.  The ship, totally
innocent as it turned out, had caused a storm of protest.  The Nationalist
Navy was popularly believed, wrongly, to be crewed and controlled by
Germany's Kriegsmarine.  A mood of revenge flashed briefly through the
Soviet Politburo before being quashed by Stalin.  He was growing jittery
that things were spiralling out of control internationally.  It was a
delicate time because, at that moment, Stalin's foreign minister, Molotov,
was negotiating the 'Non-Aggression Pact' with Hitler's man, von
Ribbentrop. Abandoning his 'Anti-Fascist Alliance' plans, Stalin was now
trying a reproachment with Hitler.

   The agreement that lead to the dismemberment of Poland was concluded
barely months before the beginning of the 2nd World War.

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

   Following that first offensive there was a lull while Yague regrouped.
Sporadic bombing still occurred but not nearly as intensive.  The
Republicans were able to relax a little, take time out of the trenches and
drift down to towns like Tortosa to play and get drunk.

   There was a steady stream of two way traffic along the web of roads
leading to the front as units went on leave and others took their place.

   There were still raids and counter raids among the outposts as the two
sides probed for weaknesses and the occasional bombardments but, for two
weeks, nothing much happened.

   As Benin waited for her turn to be relieved, she waited anxiously to
discover whether the mysterious New Zealand Air Observer was John
Greenhaugh.  She had not seen the Russian, Gregory Retvizan, for a week and
was unable to confirm the mystery man's identity.  It was commonly believed
the big Russian was with the outposts, doing things he was good at.

   Benin dealt with the idleness and boredom by writing and sketching.  It
kept her good memories alive, and put the bad ones in perspective.

   The good ones revolved around the 'Mujeres Libres,' her friends like
Perdita, and the euphoria of those early days in Barcelona when they
believed they were making a Revolution.  When they believed they were at
the dawn of a new age.  And, of course, there was John, the big man with
the pure heart who cared so much for her yet asked nothing for himself.

   The bad ones must include the time, as she emerged into adulthood, that
she worked part time as a prostitute.  There was her friend 'Chita's
Father, Senor Garcia.  Then the mysterious Senor Lorca, who like to watch
with a mirror.  That she could've given up her self-respect for the
pleasure, and the pesetas of men, made her cringe.

   Senor Lorca was a friend of Senor Garcia.  Churchmembers both and, she
suspected, they belonged to some ultra-right wing Catholic group.  Such
hypocracy didn't surprise Benin.  It was all part of the contradiction that
was the Spanish.

   She remembered the day that Chita had told her that she knew about the
liaison between her and her Father.  Chita explained that she was seeing
Senor Lorca, although she hadn't 'done' anything to him.  He was a quiet
man, she said, who liked to watch her undress while looking in a mirror.

   "He wants to peek," she said, "while sitting with his back to me.  No
touching, but I know he's playing with himself.  He has this rug over his
lap...  it moves."

   Chita was a good deal bigger than Benin; stocky where she was skinny. 
Her hips were wide and curvy and her chest had filled out her blouses from
when she was 13.  Her hair was curly, while Benin's was straight, and when
she tied it behind her head with a ribbon, it looked like a dark, auburn
bush.  Her round face, though, was full of mischief.

   Benin realised that Senor Garcia was not an aberration, that there were
many men willing to pay to forfill some sexual fantasy.  She'd already
saved a tidy sum from Senor Garcia.  A man that doesn't touch and pays well
appealed to her.  She asked Chita whether she could cut her into the
action.

   "I was hoping you'd ask," she said, "the Senor has been asking after
you."

   "He has?"

   "Yes, he'd like two girls and suggested you."

   "Ok," she agreed.  It sounded like easy money.

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

   The Senor lived in an ornate two-story mansion on the outskirts of
Barcelona.  The two girls arrived and were shown into a drawing room. 
There, two glasses of Madiera awaited them.  Later, a stiff necked and
aloof butler wordlessly indicated they were to go upstairs.

   The room was shuttered and dark.  One oil lamp hissed in the corner by
the immense canopied bed.  It threw a subtle, yellow light towards the
dresser with its tall mirror.

   "Where is he?" Benin whispered to her friend.

   "Through the open door behind us...  he is sitting with his back to
us... he has a large mirror in front of him so he can see behind."

   "Oh!" She thought the whole set up weird, but harmless.  "What do we
do?"

   "Strip....  slowly, as if you're getting ready for bed, but turn so,"
she indicated, "so he can get a good look."

   Just as they were about to start undoing the buttons of their blouses,
their was a tap on the door and the butler entered.

   "Madams," he said, "the Senor wants a good...  ah...  exhibition."

   "What does he mean?" asked Benin, "exhibition?"

   "I believe your friend understands."

   "Hey Miguel!" Chita told him, "come closer and I'll pull your dick."

   The waiter twitched inscrutably, turned, and walked out without saying a
word.  Chita laughed, Benin joined in.

   "Exhibition?" she asked Chita.

   "He wants us to play a little...  with each other."

   "That wasn't part of the deal!"

   "It's good money, Benin, and it's nothing!  Just a bit of fun, you'll
see!"

   A cough from the next room indicated their client was growing impatient.

   "Let's go," Chita whispered.

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

   "How serious, Engineer?" Admiral Gorshin asked, concern in his voice.

   "Thrust bearing kaput!  Three, perhaps four days to repair!" the
Engineer explained.

   "Damn, Kolianov!" he turned to the Political Officer, "I'm afraid we
have to anchor to effect repairs.  It's out of my hands!"

   "Can you speed it up?" Kolianov asked the Engineer.

   "Perhaps with your assistance in the Engine room?  I'll find a boiler
suit your size..."

   "No!, Quite all right.  I'm a hopeless engineer, I can assure you."

   The Engineer left with a smile om his face.

   Later, in the relatively lavish suite that served as the Admiral's
quarters, the conspirators gathered to finalise their plans.  The
'Tchervonya Ukrainia' had been designed in Tsarist times, when Admirals
expected the height of Edwardian comfort when at sea.

   Gorshin said that he would tell his Political Officer that the security
of the ship depended on the floatplane being ready to take off to check for
hostile ships in the area.

   "The man is loyal to the Party but has a small brain," he told the
others.  "Naturally, any lights at sea would need to be investigated."

   "Undoubtedly!" agreed Rhykov, "clearly the obvious duty of a responsible
commander!"

   "So, you will go ashore and seek these men?" he asked, his voice
lowered.

   "I may need several days," he told his Admiral, "we have organised a
landing zone in the 'Bana' with light floats.  The pilot will drop me off
and fly back."

   "Good, I don't want the floatplane gone too long.  Kolianov is a fool
but not *that* stupid.  Last thing I want is for him to make a report to
Moscow.  At this moment he's harrassing my Ship's Engineer.  The engine
room have half the port turbine dismantled," he chuckled, "it's most
impressive with parts lying all over the place."

   "Will he be able to get us underway, though, at short notice?" asked
Rhykov.

   "Of course, it's all theatrics," the Admiral replied, "the man should be
a Director in the Bolshoi Ballet."

   In the waist of the cruiser the dark shape of the floatplane still sat
on the catapault.  Two crewmen were painting out the red star on the
fusilage and wings with dope and on the fin, the insignia of the AV/VMF,
Soviet Naval Aviation.

   Around midnight, the crane derrick was swung above the Heinkel and the
three spreader hooks were attached to 'D' shackles recessed on top of the
fusilage and on each wing.  Carefully the crane took the weight and swung
the floatplane out over the side of the ship and lowered it into the sea.
It was then held to the ship's side by a rigid boom, upon which was a
narrow catwalk and hand rope.  Two figures deftly trotted down the perilous
boom and climbed into the cockpit.  A seaman plugged the umbilical
containing the power cable to charge the aircraft's battery into its
connector below the cockpit.  While the pilot did his pre-flight check,
Rhykov fidgeted nervously.

   Kolianov, the Political Officer, was still in the engine room when the
aircraft's prop began to rotate.  Admiral Gorshin watched from the rail as
the M22 radial engine banged and clattered into life.  The boom and its
umbilical were let go and swung up and out of the way.  Pitching heavily in
the ocean, the Admiral watched the floatplane until it was swallowed up by
the night.

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

   The tension in the room was so thick it was almost visible to the naked
eye.  Through the door into the next room Benin could just see Senor
Lorca's right arm and the rug spread over his lap.  The back of his head
was out of sight, but she gained an impression of his pale face through the
full length mirror he used to spy on the girls.

   He wore thick, round, rimless glasses.  A neatly trimmed silver beard
graced his face.  His expression seemed imperious, like a man used to being
served.  'Perhaps a Bishop?' Benin thought, 'or an aristocrat?'

   "Hold me, give mem a hug," Chita told her, "like good friends." Benin
complied.  She could feel the warm body of her friend shake as she giggled.
It lightened the mood a little.

   Chita kissed her on the cheek, her palm placed delicately on her other
cheek.  Her fingertips felt cool and smooth.  "We'd better get our blouses
off," Chita whispered, "I think the old boy is getting bored."

   The two girls moved apart.  Chita undid her buttons while looking into
Benin's eyes.  She motioned her to do the same.  Benin slowly copied her.

   Despite having whored herself to Chita's Father, Benin suddenly felt
self-conscious.  She found her hands were shaking.  Seeing this, Chita
helped.  "All fingers and thumbs," she whispered.

   Chita slid her own blouse off her shoulders.  Her big breasts were
supported by a white lacy bra.  Benin watched her smooth olive skin ripple.
The pale glow of the oil lamp seemed to make her shine.  Summoning her
resolve, Benin shed her own garment and stood facing her friend.

   "Hug?" Chita whispered, and the two girls came together once more.  "So,
how was he, my Father?" she asked.  Benin shrugged.  What and how could she
detail to Chita the things she did with her Father?  "All men are the
same," continued her friend, "only interested in getting themselves off. 
They're like lambs, maybe bulls, when they want to fuck.  Then afterwards
they treat you like some piece of shit.  True?"

   "True!" Benin nodded.

   "You want to help me with my bra?" she turned so Benin could attack the
heavy clasps.  She backed against her.  Benin could feel every sensuous
movement of her arse.  "Men!  Huh!  They come too early.  How long did
Father take to come?  Three minutes, four?"

   "Maybe," Benin croaked, her tongue thick in her mouth.

   "Dirty bastard!" Chita spat, "I bet he liked to slap your arse.  I
always knew he got off like that.  Don't know how Mother put up with him."
She turned to face Benin.  Her bare breasts flowed down her chest and
wobbled as she moved.  The size of them surprised Benin.  She took a step
back.  "Want help with that?" Chita asked, indicating Benin's bra. 
Automatically, she turned to allow her friend access to the hooks.

   Chita's chatting somehow put Benin at ease.  It was endless and
distracting.  So used to the noise, she looked up when she realised her
friend had stopped talking.  She found her friend staring at her with a
look of admiration.  "I just knew you'd be beautiful!" she told her, her
chest rising and falling.  "No wonder you've got such good customers."

   But it was Chita who flowed and wobbled like a woman, Benin thought. 
She was skinny, angular, with hips more like a boy's than a woman's.  It
was her friend who was beautful, soft and curved where she had corners.

   "Don't you think I'm too fat?" Chita asked.

   "No, not at all," she answered, "it's me, I'm too thin."

   "Oh rubbish.  Look at your legs.  They go all the way up.  And your bum!
So cute?  Mine's flabby!"

   "No!"

   "Hrumph!" came the sound from next door.

   "We'd better carry on," Chita told her, urgently.

   "What do we do?"

   "Put your hands on me...  like so," she said, placing Benin's hands on
her hips.  "Now...  move in and...  closer...  kiss me.  No, on the lips!"

   Benin did as she was told.  Chita's lips moved apart and pulsed against
her.  She thought that this was how she wanted to be kissed by a boy.  Her
customers weren't interested, or perhaps they were preoccupied with getting
her naked.

   Benin's hands circled Chita's waist.  She felt her friend do the same
until their bodies pressed together and she could feel the big girl's
breasts squashed against her chest.  Chita touched her nose, rubbed them
together grinning.

   "Girls are so much better at kissing than boys, aren't they?" she
breathed.

   The thing is, until she met John, Benin was convinced it was true.

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

   It was text book landing.  The torch floats marked two lines just as
Rhykov said they would.  The Heinkel eased down until it shuddered, heard
the swishing of the water and the taste of salt in their mouths.  The pilot
throttled down and the floatplane slowed to a halt.  He kept the engine
running on idle, exhaust crackling.

   Soon, a row boat slid silently alongside and bumped against the float.
Rhykov immediately unstrapped himself and slid down the side of the
fusilage.  Hands grabbed his feet and guided him down.  "Go on, go!" he
called up to the pilot over the noise.  As he was rowed to the shore he
heard the engine rev back up to full throttle.

   His companions were difficult to see.  They rowed efficiently and
speedily to the shore, saying nothing.  Rhykov imagined they'd been hired
by his friends in the SIM, the Republic's Secret Police.  On shore he was
met by a raincoated character in a black Molotova sedan.  Rhykov grinned to
himself at the stereotypical display.  He was ushered into the car quickly,
which promptly bogged in the soft sand.  As his SIM Policemen gathered some
men amid shouts of abuse, Rhykov burst out laughing.  The car was pushed
out and they set off inland.

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

   John and 'Oz' trudged carefully along the marked track that guided them
towards the rear.  No-one moved during the day, soldiers were relieved,
supplies were sent, and even essential things like water and ammunition
were only moved at night.  A covered red torch was their only guide.

   Their original mission, to find Benin, had been put on hold.  Events had
overtaken them.  They realised how important this campaign was to the
future of the Republic, the cause that so many of their friends had died
for.

   Soon they came to the main road that led to the coast.  It was rutted
from wheeled and tracked traffic.  Presently an armoured car hummed along,
its exhaust muffled.  They put out their thumbs and the vehicle slowed so
they could climb onto the running boards.  Clinging on to handrails, they
bumped down towards the town of Tortosa for some R and R.

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

   Benin, however, still lay in her dugout dreaming.  That day at Senor
Lorca's had opened doors and closed others.  It finally made up her mind
that she didn't really want the career as a prostitute; didn't want to be
at the behest of men.  It was just another form of servitude.  She knew
there had to be something better.

   Her friend Chita had been much more secure in her role.  She was further
along in the discovery of her own sensuality; more willing to explore and
be explored; more confident all round about the possibilities of her body.

   Benin realised in her heart as soon as Chita ran her fingers delicately
over her skin that she had manipulated the whole situation.  Benin
suspected that it was Chita herself that suggested to Senor Lorca that she
work with another girl and that girl should be her friend Benin.  She
wanted to back out, but she'd come too far.  In any case, the way Chita
touched her, held her, was something she'd never experienced before.

   "Hrumph!" the Senor was growing impatient again.

   "Let's get the rest of our clothes off," Chita suggested.  Dumbly, Benin
began to fiddle with the tie of her knickers.  "Mine first!" her friend
insisted.

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

   It took the Molotova barely 20 minutes to drive to Amposta.  There they
dropped off their charge and fled back to the coast.  Rhykov found a
secluded spot where he could set up his portable radio.  Deftly, he tapped
his callsign plus the code to tell the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya,' that he'd
arrived safely.  He did this three times before rolling up the antenna.  He
didn't expect the ship to reply, nevertheless, he was sure she got the
message.

   After that, he assembled his PPD and slung it over his shoulder. 
Quickly, he slipped into the night towards the banks of the Ebro.

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

   A bare 6 kilometres away at Tortosa, the armoured car dropped 'Oz' and
John off in the town square.  Half the buildings of the town were bombed
out ruins.  A key communication centre for the Republican army, it had
received the attention of Sperle's Condor Legion aircraft.

   The soldiers had improvised shelters among the ruins where booze could
be had cheaply.  Musicians played and girls danced, it was business as
usual.

   The wine had been adulterated.  The sharp entrepreneurs had watered down
the casks then planted a plug of tobacco in it.  The nicotine imparts a
'sharp kick' to the weak wine.  It was an old trick and the two friends
weren't fooled.  'Oz' scored some Dutch beer and they found a quiet spot to
get drunk.

   Some time, well after midnight, John woke to the scratching of a boot on
gravel.  He'd barely opened his eyes before he felt the sting of a cold
blade on his throat.

   "Hey!" the whispered voice spoke Spanish with a heavy Russian accent. 
"Hey!  I'm looking for a man named Gregory, Russian, big, you seen him?"
John shook his head.  The blade left his throat, he turned around and the
night was empty.

   "Hey," John called, "Oz!  I think I've just seen a ghost."

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

   Well out to sea, Admiral Gorshin breathed a sigh of relief when he heard
the aircraft return.  It had been been hoisted well out of the water before
Kolianov ran out on deck.

   "Was that our floatplane?" he asked, "where's it been?  Why wasn't I
informed?  This is most irregular!"

   "Routine patrol," the Admiral explained, "I didn't think there was a
need to distract you from your important task in the engine room."

   "I wasn't...  I mean, there is no need for me to...  Um," he collected
himself, "why would you need to patrol at night?"

   "Ah, Kolianov," the Admiral replied, "just checking on some unidentified
lights on the horizon."

   "And what were the lights?"

   "Trawlers."

   "Ah!"

   The Admiral hated having to wait impotently.  Even if, strictly
speaking, Rhykov wasn't one of the crew, nevertheless, he felt a
responsibility towards him.  Sighing, he wandered back towards his cabin.
He hoped Rhykov understood he couldn't delay the ship beyond 4 days.  He
had to leave, regardless.  Soviet cargo ships required escorting across the
Bay of Biscay and past Nationalist Naval bases.  Such an important task
couldn't be abandoned for the lives of 1 or 2 men.

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

   "Hrumph!"

   Benin felt heself being eased backwards until she touch the soft
mattress of the bed.  She flopped onto her back, eyes still shut, and felt
the mattress bounce as another body plonked down beside her.  A hand
stroked her chest, breasts and fingertips teased her nipples to hardness.

   "Oh baby!" Chita said.  But she was no-longer acting.  Her voice
breathed lust and desire and her hands caressed her with need.  Her lips
brushed hers and her tongue gently prised open her mouth.  "My sweet
Benin!" she whispered.

   Chita's leg slid possessively over her body.  A hand pushed between her
legs and stroked her pussy.  Despite it all, Benin found herself responding
to the assault.  A hand took hers and placed on a matted, moist and warm
place.  "C'mon, my love," Chita said, "you know what to do, I know you do."

   Benin pushed and probed at the moist place until she felt it open out
like a petal.  Chita hissed encouragement and began to work on Benin's own
pussy faster.  She undulated against Benin's thigh, forcing her probing
finger deeper inside her.  She hissed and moaned again, pushed against her
faster and faster.

   "Oh baby," she gasped, "oh..."

   Benin was aware of her own breathing, rasping in her ears.  Her friend
knew exactly how to manipulate her, touch and pace her, so that she rose
steadily towards a crisis.  Chita moaned and cried herself to an orgasm,
then set to work bringing off her friend.  Benin's was not long in coming
and she wailed as Chita held her head into her soft breasts.

   They lay together for a little while until a soft tapping brought them
down to earth.  Miguel, the butler, entered, coughed, and thanked the
girls. That was the signal to get dressed and get out.

   "Hey, Miguel," Chita said as he showed them out.  "How's your dick,
bruised?"

   "Sluts!" he spat as he slammed the door.

   Benin had made up her mind, however.  There had to be a better way to
earn a living.  She turned back to the mansion.  Right above the doorway,
unnoticed before, was a large stone cross.

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

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