Chapter 11

"NO!" yelled John, his voice rising with frustration and the knowledge that he had no other choice if he was to rescue his lover. He understood that the front was going to gradually collapse, that there was now no hope for the Popular Front Government of the Spanish Republic. "No way!"

"Don't fucking argue," 'Oz' told him, "that floatplane can only take three people at a squeeze, you, Benin and the Russkie. I want to stay, y'here, really!"

"You take Benin..."

"Fuckin' mug! Y'think she's going to go with me and leave you behind?"

Rhykov, the Russian GPU agent, paced impatiently not far away. He sometimes glanced at the two piles of earth just above the high tide mark of the Puenta de la Bana. The graves were unmarked to deter the Falangists from desecrating them later.

He listened to the two friends arguing, barely comprehending their twangy Australasian English. But he understood their dilemma. One of them will have to remain behind to take their chances. Normally intolerant of foolishness, he decided this time to let the two comrades work it out.

He recalled Retvizan, the romantic guerilla fighter. He chose to give up his life so he, Rhykov, might have a chance. He imagined this Australian fellow called 'Oz' had made a similar decision. 'No greater sacrifice... ' He knew 'Oz' would have his way.

"Let the Russian swim," John said, "we all stay."

"No, for the fucking last time! Look, let me tell you something. There's nothing back in Australia for me, y'here? Y'think I was a fucking pilot, right? Flying the outback and all that?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Well I never was a pilot, see? Only been up in an aeroplane once. I got this cropduster to show me how to fly. I saw this ad in a paper for pilots in Spain so I bullshitted!"

"Oh crap, you're..."

"That's the truth, Shagger, I was nothing but a farmhand, and a piss poor one at that. Got fired more often than not. I can't go back, the Law wants me."

"What for?"

"Fraud, theft, take your pick. I was a tea leaf, nuthin' more."

"A thief?" John said in astonishment.

"A thief! But Spain's giving me significance. For the first time I feel I'm doing something worthwhile, something important. I never was going to go back. Even on the docks at Barcelona, even if you'd stepped onto that ship, I never was going back."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"Walk to France, maybe? Get me a couple of French sheilas and get pissed on the Montmartre. I could get a job in the Armee de l'aire, maybe the French Foreign Legion? Lots of opportunities for a good pilot. The French are getting some of those Curtiss Hawks I hear. Maybe they'll let me fly one?"

"Sure, 'Oz'," said John, beaten, "maybe they will?"

"Well, bugger off then, your Russian is getting anxious. Don't forget to take Benin? Shag her rotten and whack out a whole litter, eh?"

"I will!" John was in a dream. He felt reality slipping away. It was 'Oz' who fetched Benin and brought her to the dinghy. 'Oz' propelled him towards the boat with a hefty slap on the back. Stumbling, John jogged to the boat and got in. He stared back at the beach at his friend waving. Benin gave his hand a squeeze. Before he knew it the boat bumped against the pontoon.

Suddenly energised with the task in hand, he helped Rhykov pull the seat out of the floatplane and throw it into the water. Together they eased Benin up the tall side of the aeroplane and helped her into the space behind the second cockpit. She grimaced in pain at the maneuvring and Rhykov took off his battledress jacket to make a pillow for her.

"Fuck!" Rhykov muttered as he wedged himself into the cockpit. There was now nothing below him but the floor of the fusilage about 1 and a half metres below. He propped his boots into the aircraft's longeron ribs and squatted with his back against a wooden former. He regretted giving up his jacket as he realised the former would be digging into his back. He gripped the panel in front till he was balanced like a skiier. It was the best he could do.

The sun was well up now. John looked up from his preflight check at the little knot of spectators on the beach. He couldn't see 'Oz, ' he thought he must have left already.

It's just as well that most aircraft have the instruments in the same place, because the characters were all in Russian. Nevertheless, he had to ask Rhykov to translate. 'YAC' was kilometres, ok, 'artificial horizon' was pretty obvious and, once one figured out the Cyrillic numbering system, one could calculate engine revolutions and altitude. He cranked up the pumps to full pressure and hit the self starter. He bellowed in triumph when the wheezing engine banged into life. John tested the throttle lever until he was satisfied he understood everything he needed to get the aircraft airborne. The seaman cast off the plane from the pontoon and the plane began to move.

'Oz' heard the plane's engine start up. He kept on walking, he wasn't sure to where. He'd been surprised John had swallowed all that bullshit about him being a thief. But then, John Greenhaugh had always been gullible, hadn't he?

The truth is, he wanted to go home as much as anyone. He should've boarded that ship at Barcelona, but he didn't fancy John's chances on his own. He needed someone who was street smart, John was far too naïve and trusting. He'd have been a dog's dinner in no time, wouldn't he? 'Oz' Callaghan had never left a mate in the lurch.

A truck clattered along. 'Oz' put out his thumb but it kept on going. "Fucking Spaniards," he muttered, "fucking mug!" he said to himself.

John had never piloted a floatplane in his life. When taxiing it pitched and rolled like a boat that was far too top heavy. Unlike a landplane, control was sluggish because of the resistance of the water. He turned slowly into the wind and wound open the engine. The radial roared and spray flew up in a wide arc over the cockpit. At last it began to speed up through the water, the nose came up alarmingly and the aircraft settled into planing over the sea. John looked into the mirror and saw a high plume of water following the craft.

Rhykov's face was strained as he tried to support himself on his haunches against the bumping of the aircraft.

The heavily laden floatplane wouldn't lift, wouldn't get up to rotation speed. John pushed the throttle past the gate as it left behind the last of their light floats. Ahead was the mouth of the inlet and the open sea. John saw the crests of the waves ahead as the surf smashed towards the rocks. If the plane wasn't airborne by the time he reached open water, John wasn't sure what the rougher sea was going to do to the frail aircraft.

He looked into the mirror again. Rhykov was yelling and pointing up with his finger. John couldn't hear a word, but supposed what the GPU agent was telling him.

The plane lurched and suddenly they were skimming above the waves. John felt a surge of elation as he eased the stick slowly back and the nose of the Heinkel came up towards the sky. He looked into the mirror again and saw Rhykov smiling. John climbed steadily until they were at 1,500 metres altitude. He then banked towards the Mediterranean on the heading Rhykov had given him. He flicked on the radio and tapped the callsign, once twice.

Admiral Gorshin was on the upper bridge. He'd ordered steam up 2 hours ago and was counting anxiously down on his watch. In twenty minutes they had to leave or they'd never make the rendezvous with their support ship. To catch up time they would have to increase speed and, like any fast warship, the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' burnt up fuel at a prodigious rate at full speed.

The decision to leave had to be his, he insisted. He wouldn't pass on the responsibility of leaving people behind down the chain of command. If family or the High Command wanted someone's head to roll, it had to be his. There was no other way.

A signalman ran up the ladder and handed the Admiral a chit. On it, the call sign 'SC' repeated twice. Admiral Gorshin breathed a sigh of relief and gave the order to prepare the ship for seaplane recovery.

This was one of the most difficult tasks for any vessel in open sea. The cruiser was narrow and so had a tendency to roll. This made hitching the crane to a seaplane bobbing alongside a very dangerous operation. Various techniques were tried in the Soviet Navy, but the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' developed its own way.

A seaman was attached to the crane's spreaders by harness and was lowered down to the top wing of the aircraft. Swinging above, he clicked in the shackles by using a steel bar with a specially adapted hook on the end. If the sea was too rough, the seaman risked a ducking or being slammed against the wooden wing of the floatplane. Worse, he could be swung through the arc of the spinning propellor and chopped to pieces. The aircraft needed to keep the engine running to prevent the plane from drifting. It wasn't a job for the faint-hearted, but the 'Tchervonya Ukrainiya' had never lost a seaman this way.

And conditions were marginal, for the sea had come up. It was going to be an extremely difficult operation with fine handling required from the aircraft's pilot, the bridge crew and the recovery team.

All navies that used catapault aircraft had the same problem. The Japanese and the British were probably the most experienced and even those navies had at least one spare aeroplane on board in case of accidents. Soviet Cruisers of the 'Profintern' class, however, had only one. If that was damaged then it was tough luck.

It took John half an hour to locate the ship. A buzz of traffic came over his headphones, all in Russian and completely indecypherable. He had never landed a floatplane on the water before, or been recovered by a warship. Rhykov plugged in his headset in the second cockpit and tried to give instructions. He couldn't hear the ship calling so couldn't translate for him.

"Land into wind," Rhykov told him, "taxi to the ship's side ahead of the crane. Stand off 10 metres, they will hook you on, simple!" John could see that it wasn't that simple, that his throttle control would have to be perfect. And that in a type of aircraft with which he was unfamiliar as well as overladen. If he miscalculated he could drown them all, particularly Benin, who had no way of getting out in an emergency.

He was clammy with sweat, it ran down his forehead into his eyes. He circled slowly, observing the surface of the sea, calculating windspeed and direction. Gritting his teeth, he lowered the flaps to shed speed. He had little idea of the stalling speed of the Heinkel, instead, he used his sense of feel. Fortunately, the aircraft was very responsive to the controls and docile, a credit to its designer, Ernst Heinkel, and to its eliptical wings.

He sank lower and lower bringing the nose up for landing. The extra weight in the aircraft, particular Benin's behind the centre of gravity, threatened to cause the floatplane to pitch up at near stall speed and hit the water tail first. It was hard work, jigging the stick to keep the tail clear of the water. The Heinkel shuddered as it clipped the first wave. The nose now threatened to pitch forward and John put on more throttle to compensate.

The float touched water again and this time John eased back on the throttle. The Heinkel slapped down into the water, ducking into a trough, then breaking over a crest. In a remarkably short time, the floatplane settled, ceased planning, and began to pitch and roll in the sea. They were down.