Chapter 16

As Europe entered the last year of the 1930's decade, it seemed obvious to most people that a war was inevitable. Whether the conflict could be contained, no-one knew. Certainly, Prime Minister Chamberlain of Britain was one who thought a general European war could be averted. Nevertheless, even Britain was furiously arming itself to the teeth, just in case.

The Soviet Union, too, had been rearming its immense military. But, unlike Britain whose armed forces were relatively small and could rely on the efficient Royal Navy to ward off invaders, Russia had long and vulnerable land borders to protect.

Hostile neighbours snarled at her. First, the Japanese, old enemies from the turn of the century, lay just across the border in Manchuria. The Japanese Empire claimed ludicrously large chunks of Soviet territory in Eastern Siberia, claiming they were the inheritors of ancient Chinese claims. They hadn't gained their wish list in the Peace of Portsmouth in 1905 and many in their military-led Government hankered for another chance. In 1938 Japanese forces clashed with with their Soviet counterparts in a brief and obscure exchange over the Amur river.

To the North West lay Finland. She was in a semi-covert alliance with Germany, more of an 'understanding' than an international contract, and she had the potential to bottle up the Soviet Baltic fleet in its harbour. In addition, her border lay within a good spit of Leningrad and, in the Soviet view, was a dangerous springboard for enemy forces. The Red Army had little respect for the minute Finnish army, but feared Germany.

Then there were the Baltic States of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. Like Finland, they were former Tsarist provinces that the Soviets had not been able to re-incorporate into the new USSR. The States were insecure, to say the least, about their vast neighbour and had leaned towards Germany as a counterbalance. In Latvia's case, she'd even gone so far as to embrace Nazi philosophy, complete with the swastika symbol.

Another former Tsarist province was Poland and neither country had forgotten the Red Army's invasion in 1922. In that case, the skilled and intensely nationalistic Marshal Pilsudski had rallied the Poles to a historic victory over Trotsky's Red forces. Moscow had never been satisfied with the peace, claiming the Poles had gained territory that was historically Russia's. The border was too close to important industrial centres, the Soviets claimed, and could be used as a springboard for invasion by, of course, Germany. That the Poles were equally hostile to Nazi Germany didn't interest Stalin. Poland was a Capitalist dictatorship and thus could enter into an alliance with other Capitalist distatorships at any time.

Romania was another country flirting with Fascism and she hankered after pieces of the Ukraine. Hungary, too, was hostile as was Bulgaria, traditionally the closest of Russia's friends but, like the other countries, had territorial claims and showed themselves to be brazenly opportunistic.

In 1939 Russia seemed isolated and beset by packs of wolves probing for signs of weakness. At least, that was the view of Josef Stalin and his opinion was all that mattered.

Russia's rapid industrialisation and re-armament had put incredible strains on, not only society at large, but the scientific and technical communities. They were the ones who had to come up with the advances, with the inventions and developments that were to equip the rapidly expanding Soviet military. The huge Red Army demanded standardisation of equipment, the industrial complex that supported the Red Army, too, needed decisions so they could tool up and begin production. Short runs drained resources, were inefficient, but the wrong choices of equipment could mean that the Red Army was stuck with thousands of tanks, for instance, that were useless to them.

14 plants made aero engines, for instance, and their capacity was huge. The Soviet Government had settled on two basic types, more for political than practical reasons, and, like it or not, the aircraft designers of Russia were stuck with them. In 1941 the Luftwaffe caught much of the Red Airforce's Frontal Aviation sitting on its airfields but those Russian fighters they encountered in the air were easy pickings for the Messerschmitts.

But Russia had the basic airframes, the technology, and the industrial capacity to produce vast numbers of specialised and very capable aircraft. All they needed was Western technological advances from the foremost companies, such as Bristol's, Rolls Royce, Wright's and Pratt and Whitney, and this came in an avalanche after the ink was dried on the treaties in 1941.

In 1939, however, the Red Airforce struggled under immense pressure to equip itself and train its pilots for the future conflict. There were shortages of everything, except young, enthusiastic recruits. Its R and D establishments sucked up everything they could get to give them an advantage. Anyone with any experience at all of air combat, especially against the latest western aircraft, were siezed on, feted, coerced, or co-opted into the struggle. And those that helped willingly, such as John Greenhaugh of New Zealand, via Spain, were looked after very well, as long as they produced the goods.

That John was an exceptional, intuitive, pilot there was no doubt. That he had experience fighting the Messerschmitt Bf 109, then the feared nemesis of the Red Airforce, was on record. That he also, like any good pilot, could look at an aircraft and evaluate it wasn't always appreciated by those who'd staked their reputations on it. But his opinion couldn't be ignored and, at the end of the day, the young Dr Mikoyan was sent back to the drawing board to redesign the MiG 3. John Greenhaugh had not liked his product and Mikoyan's bureaucratic supporters quickly looked to preserve their own arses.

The test pilot fraternity at the Red Air Force Tactical Research and Weapons Institute at Novgorod were delighted. Pilots are an exclusive club. Even enemies are respected as associate members. Like all exclusive clubs they socialise and work together and share the same opinion about those whose feet are rooted to the earth.

They loved John and treated him as one of themselves. He, in turn, enjoyed the comradeship and respect. As his Russian improved, he was able to communicate more easily and appreciate the subtleties of the conversation.

Jana Ivanova liked him too. She was nothing short of gorgeous; a talented aerobatic pilot, blonde, beautiful, and could fill out a flying suit in such a way that stopped male ground crews in their tracks. And, at least technically, she was John's superior, a full Captain at the tender age of 26.

Her personal life was something of a mystery but it was known she was never short of lovers. It was known, too, that she had no intention of settling down with anyone. She lived for flying, as they all did, and had no room in her life for a demanding man. Domestic chores were a bore and she couldn't see herself as anyone's housewife.

John, though, had a distinct advantage over all the men that interested her, he wasn't Russian.

Meanwhile, far away in a remote French valley in the Pyrenees an old friend of John's was contemplating his future. 'Oz' Callaghan, an Australian from the, then, mainly rural State of Queensland, had fallen in with a bunch of Anarchists. He had all the qualities normally associated with people from that part of the globe. He was adaptable, practical, self-sufficient, a born cynic and a talented story-teller. He was also lean, strong, a quick thinker and knew his way around firearms. Why he attracted the attentions of the passionate, French-born Anarchist, Catalina he had no idea.

He would tell everyone how she 'pissed him off.' He'd tell them that 'she'd bore the pants off a gallah.' Her singing, he'd say, was 'worse than a donkey with its balls caught in a gin trap.' She was, he said, 'a fucking nuisance, ' but the comrades rarely saw him without Catalina in tow.

She could drink him under the table. She could knock him on his arse with one punch. She could pop the cork out of a bottle of wine from 100 metres away with her antique Russian rifle. She was as strong as an ox and no-one had bested her at wrestling. In short, 'Oz' thought she was wonderful.

'Oz' had no intention of remaining in the Pyrenees. The Basque community here were poor and, although generous to a fault, 'Oz' didn't feel right about living on their charity. Some of the comrades were happy to stay and join the guerilla war against Franco's soldiers just over the border in Spain. But, as far as 'Oz' was concerned, there was little point anymore.

The CNT, the Catalonia-based Anarchist Trade Union movement, had deep roots here. The Basques had blended the philosophy with their own bid for political independence. Already word was circulating through the mountains of yet another Basque guerilla group. One of dozens, they were called ETA, 'Basque Homeland and Freedom, ' and they would burst onto the towns along the Biscay coast in a long campaign of bombings and assassinations. Even striking at the very heart of Falangist Spain, Madrid.

But the Basque's struggle was not 'Oz's.' Nor was it Catalina's anymore and she knew that she'd only be a liability to the Basque guerillas who were born in these mountains and were familiar with every rock and crevice. To the Basques, in any case, a woman's place wasn't with the fighting men.

Some half a dozen of the comrades decided to head on down to Perpignan and join the émigré Spanish Anarchists there. They'd been barely tolerated by the French authorities but now there were so many Spanish refugees drifting into France from the war that they either had to be absorbed or there'd be serious unrest.

'Oz' and Catalina joined them. A big party was held the day before they were to leave and no-one was left sober. So it was with a pounding headache that 'Oz' set off with the others.

In Novgorod, Benin went shopping for baby clothes. Money was plentiful for the couple, the Soviets were ensuring they wanted for nothing. One thing they couldn't get was a car. Benin was in no doubt it was to stop them driving off over the border. But that wasn't a problem in Novgorod. There were few cars anyway and public transport was convenient and cost next to nothing.

Compared to Leningrad, Novgorod was staid and bucolic. But the town was ancient and picturesque, featuring fine museums and art galleries. There was an intellectual community there with a University of Fine Arts. And, to Benin's delight, there was a Ballet theatre with a permanent company, the Medvedev. The city authorities had not permitted the establishment of a jazz scene, however, but the local musicians had produced their own version of the American music by adapting local folk tunes using traditional instruments. The watchdogs could have no quibble with that. The musicians knew how to push the limits without incurring official wrath.