Chapter 18

In March 1939 everything in Spain came to a final conclusion. Miaja, charged with the defence of Madrid, knew there was little point and began some limited 'discussion' with Franco's Generals. Negrin, the Prime Minister, had been flown out of Barcelona in a Russian aircraft and, after two days, appeared in Moscow with Stalin himself.

The siege of Barcelona had been mercifully short. The Popular Army just didn't have any more fight left in them. The Nationalist General Prieto cut loose the thugs of his Falangist units who swarmed through the streets, arresting, executing, and beating up people pretty much at random. Things didn't augur well for the 'peace.'

General Modesto, Communist supreme commander of the Popular Army, heard of the 'discussion' with the Nationalists and was furious. He sacked Miaja, who refused to go. Fearing what Modesto would do if given free rein, Miaja led a mutiny of the Popular Army in Madrid. Modesto led loyal troops to the Capital but, before they could arrive, Miaja ordered his troops to lay down their arms and leave the lines. White flags were flown from the parapets. Nationalist troops marched in that very afternoon. Modesto was isolated and his army disbanded. All was over.

In Novgorod, little of any news appeared in the newspapers about Spain. All the Russian papers were delivered to the Pravda Hotel, including 'Tass, ' which was normally for foreign consumption. The 'Vremya' carried a short article on page three about atrocities perpetrated by 'Fascist lackeys and their fellow travellers.' Vitriol towards Nazi Germany had been toned down, Benin noted. Now, the 'Vremya' described the German Condor Legion as a 'Foreign volunteer organisation.' It all seemed a bit suspicious to her.

John had appeared again on the front page of the Air Force newspaper 'Red Star.' His name had been misspelt and his photo was taken with a woman pilot, a beautiful blond called Jana Ivanova. She recognised the name as the one John had accidently called her that morning 2 weeks ago. Benin seethed as she stared at the photo. If she ever discovered John was having an affair with that woman she'd geld him.

She'd never imagined ever feeling this way. She'd rebelled against the institution of marriage as it existed in Spain. Wives had few rights, they hadn't the vote until 1931, and their treatment by the average Spanish husband was appalling, in Benin's opinion.

John had opened her eyes. He'd been so different to just about every man she'd ever met. He was tender, caring, had treated her as an equal and was disarmingly honest. That was, Benin suspected, before he'd met that Russian woman. She had a chassis impossible to compete with.

"I'm not going to compete," she said out loud, throwing the newspaper on the floor. "She can have the bastard and good luck."

Meanwhile, John was introduced to a new, young, talented, aircraft designer. Russia didn't appear short of them, but then, scientific and engineering professions had been oversold to the youth of Russia. And also, it was continually pointed out, Russia had a history of powered flight as least as long as the Americans. John was surprised to learn that the Wright Brothers were a fraud and that it was a Russian who'd first taken to the air in an aeroplane. 'Every Russian schoolchild knew that, ' John had been told, 'how could he have been so gullible?'

Sergei Ilyushin had been a display flier before he attended the Aviation Design and Engineering Institute at Rostov on Don and gained his degree. He was not only an innovative and skilled designer, but knew aircraft from a pilot's point of view. Unlike Dr. Mikoyan, who had refused to speak to John after he'd been critical of the MiG 3, Ilyushin was anxious to include John in his new project.

The Red Airforce was critically short of modern aircraft. Designers and engineers were under incredible pressure and some aircraft were being rushed into production before they'd been fully developed. Mikoyan's MiG 3 went into production with broader wings to reduce the landing speed and increase stability. Many of the faults John identified were still there, but it had a good turn of speed and was better than most of the existing equipment.

The LaGG 3 was approved, despite its inadequate power, and Dr. Yakovlev's Yak 3. Proving was said to have been completed following the Yak's air display so John and Jana were reassigned. Jana went to the Polykarpov Bureau to re-jig the I16. John went to Ilyushin's and his new plane, the future Il2.

John had mixed feelings about the separation. He'd felt awkward around her for the few days after the display. Jana had not mentioned the 'incident' further and had been pretty much her old self but, nevetheless, he felt a fool.

Ilyushin's design was astonishing. Outwardly, it was a conventional monoplane optimised for ground attack, handsome, yet businesslike. A single cockpit was fitted to the prototype but some provision was being considered for a second crewman behind the pilot. But the amazing thing about it was the front of the aircraft. From the nose to just behind the pilot, the Il2 was fashioned out of one piece of solid armour plate. In addition, the proposed armament were two cannons lifted out of a light tank!

The heavy plane had to be powered by an M38, a bomber engine, developed by Dr. Mikhulin out of the Hispano-Suiza to such a degree that it was regarded as a domestic design. The aircraft was a tank with wings and there was no other aircraft like it anywhere in the World. John could see it was a tour de force and Ilyushin had burst into the aviation world with a vengeance.

At altitude it was a slug to fly and it certainly wasn't a dogfighter. But that wasn't its purpose. Il2s rarely flew above 2000 metres and most often much less. All Soviet aircraft were heavy on the controls, but the Il2 was brutal on its pilot. John felt like he'd just gone 10 rounds with a heavyweight wrestler when he landed after his first flight. But, flat out, 50 metres off the ground, it was a thrilling aircraft to fly.

'Oz' had found somewhere to stay the night in Perpignan. It was at the house of a local supporter and a dozen of them were crammed into the small lounge.

His head was too heavy on his shoulders and it was an effort to look up. If it wasn't for Catalina propping him up he would have toppled from his chair. She was not in much better shape, having drunk at least as much as he. But, he surmised, she had a lower centre of gravity and he'd rarely seen her keel over.

"C'mon," she told him, "sweet dreams for you... drunken bastard!"

"Wha? Leave me alone," he slurred. But he offered no resistance as she pulled him from his chair and deposited his body on the floor. With a crash, she fell down next to him.

"I think I'm drunk," she mumbled. But 'Oz' was already in a coma.

The next day they regretted the indulgence of the night before. 'Oz' groaned piteously and Catalina told him to shut up. The room was devastated and stank of booze and stale bodies. They couldn't move without treading on someone's arm or vitals. But 'Oz''s throat was as dry as the desert so he stumbled through to the kitchen for water.

"Fucking Hell!" he whined as he sat outside in the yard, "I feel like I've been hit by a train!" Catalina came and sat beside him. She draped an arm over his shoulders and pushed a bowl of grapes into his lap. They both picked at them, spitting the pips out over the small garden. Catalina spat further. 'Oz' grinned, 'was there nothing she couldn't do?'

"Where you go now?" she asked him.

"Home? I dunno."

"What, you swim?" 'Oz' shrugged. He was broke and had no idea how he was going to get home. He refused to see the British Consul on principle, the Australian Embassy was far away in Paris, and he'd no idea what assistance they could offer him anyway.

Catalina stroked 'Oz's shoulders and tousled his hair. "You need a wash, shave and haircut. You look like shit!" she told him.

Beni crashed, stumbling through the door to the small yard. He urinated into the herb garden.

"Hey Beni!" 'Oz' said, "careful of the oregano. That's going into the paella."

"Oops! You maybe use the sage?"

"That is the sage."

"Oh well," he shrugged, "it adds aroma."

"So, what are you going to do?" Catalina drew him back. Again, 'Oz' had no answer to give. "You maybe come home with me to Provence?" she suggested, "it's a roof for the time being."

"Y'sure?" 'Oz' replied, "I don't want to be a burden to your family?"

"No burden," she told him, "they've got plenty to share around. My Father is a professor of politics at the University. Mother is a successful artist. They're very committed people, you like them."

"I will?" 'Oz' shivered. It sounded like he was going to have more political lectures. "They're going to chew my ears off?" he asked Catalina.

"No," she laughed, "they have plenty of food." She batted him playfully sending him teetering off his chair. She grabbed him around the head and dragged gim back. "It's going to be good," she told him, "you and me!"

'Oz' smiled weakly.

It had been someone's bright idea, but few of the test pilots at the Red Air Force Tactical Research and Weapons Institute agreed. Take an aircraft designed in 1931, some 8 years ago, graft it to a more powerful engine, upgrade the controls, weapons, reinforce the airframe where it needs to be reinforced, then rush it into service with minimal testing. Factories were already tooled up for it, the bureaucrats reasoned, so the aircraft could be produced in big numbers with little interruption to production lines. But, Jana was convinced, the I16 had had its day.

The I16 had been a sensation when it was first revealed to the West; an all-metal monoplane, clean, without exposed bracing or control wires, and fast and maneuvrable. Most of the World's airforces were still relying on the venerable biplane, with mixed metal, wood and fabric construction. The Italians were still producing biplane fighters, the Fiat CR42, and the British, with their Gloster Gladiator, long after the I16 had made them obsolete.

But all the West's airforces were now producing fighters that were, not only the equal, but much superior to the Russian. Frontal Aviation still had 100s of the I16s as their front line strength, as well as the older, biplane I15. They needed to be replaced, in the opinion of the pilots, not upgraded.

Polykarpov himself understood. But in Russia he did what he was told. He had to find ways of improving the I16's performance and that was that.

Jana missed John. He was so easy going and could be relied on to make some wry joke when things got heavy. She could pour out her feelings to him and he'd understand. He'd no interest in sucking up to anyone. He didn't care about his 'career' as others did. Most of all, though, he was her friend.

She regretted the incident that morning. She'd provoked him, she realised, and had encouraged him to step over the boundary. She'd fondled his arse and he'd responded like any red blooded male. If he then assumed he could feel her up in a room full of big shots, then she was partly to blame. She'd acted like a bitch in heat around him.

A Russian Officer of lower grade wouldn't have touched her up like that, he wouldn't have dared to. No matter no-one appeared to witness the incident, they'd been too busy congratulating each other and bolting vodka. It had reminded her of her struggle with male colleagues and superiors she'd had when forging a career as an aerobatic pilot. They too, took her for a whore until she reminded them of their place. She'd kneed a few hopeful Romeos in the balls, she grinned, they learned to take her seriously or else!