Chapter 7

"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.