Chapter 8

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.