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vigilantsldr - Thank you. Mission accomplished I guess.
Corruption - Thanks, hope I can keep you entertained.
And of course a hearty thank you to all readers on this occasion (Writer of the week). I apologise for another long wait for an update but I haven't been very effective the last couple of days.
Corruption - Thanks, hope I can keep you entertained.
And of course a hearty thank you to all readers on this occasion (Writer of the week). I apologise for another long wait for an update but I haven't been very effective the last couple of days.
Ivanov found captain de Jovellanos in the aid station that had been hastily set up. There weren't enough stretchers for all the patients, many wounded men had to lie on the ground. Doctors wearing bloody aprons were operating behind the cover of sheets arranged as walls that blew in the wind, revealing horrible scenes and then covering them again. One patient grabbed Ivanov by the coat and spoke to him in Spanish, as if he was begging or beseeching. Ivanov could do nothing but break free from his surprisingly strong grip. de Jovellanos was crouched next to a young man with a carelessly bandaged wound in the back of the head. The younger man seemed to be explaining how the wound had been inflicted and de Jovellanos listened intently. After talking to the young soldier for some time de Jovellanos stood up and walked up to Ivanov.
“Come, lieutenant.”
“Excuse me, captain, I was just wondering if you had seen commissar Dimitrov?”
The captain seemed to be deep in his own thoughts. Ivanov repeated his question.
“Ah yes, I think he's at HQ. Not much for him to do I'm afraid. Come along to HQ, will you? I've got some tactical problems. Finally a chance for you to do your job.”
Ivanov had almost forgotten the charade he was supposed to be playing. He tensed up at the prospect of making a complete fool out of himself in front of several Spanish officers. If he was going to tell the truth to de Jovellanos, this was the time. But he couldn't muster the courage and decided to postpone the shame. Maybe he could think of something to say until then.
The mood in the restaurant had deteriorated severely since before the attack. The uniforms seemed dirtier, the faces not quite so poised, some chairs were empty. Casualty lists were being written, letters home drafted. de Jovellanos' dog however was snoozing on the floor as if nothing had happened. In one corner sat commissar Dimitrov reading something he tried to keep hidden from everyone else. As soon as he saw Ivanov he motioned for him to come over.
“I need to talk to you. I've got some disturbing news from Barcelona. Apparently some of our comrades in the communist party there have been attacked by anarchists. It's a very volatile situation.”
“Yes? But that is hardly any of our business.”
“Oh don't be a fool, Ivanov. My orders are to help the Spanish comrades in any way.”
This was new to Ivanov. His briefing on the political situation in Spain had been sketchy to say the least. The GRU officer supposedly responsible for Spanish affairs had gained most of his knowledge from ten years old encyclopaedia entries.
“I'm sorry, comrade. My orders are to stay with this battalion, and nothing else.”
Dimitrov's grimace seemed to sum up all his contempt for Ivanov and his kind.
“Very well, I'll go into Barcelona myself. That is where history will be written, not here with these upper class officers.”
Ivanov left Dimitrov and walked over to the map. de Jovellanos turned to him.
“Ah, lieutenant. Change of plans. I'm going to consult with my colleagues at Division HQ, everything's different now you see. Our enemies seem to be retreating again, possibly even dispersing. It's a political matter now.”
Ivanov felt an extreme elation and could have hugged de Jovellanos at that moment for liberating him from certain embarrassment.
“That means you won't be needing an analysis then, captain?”
“Quite. Why don't you get some rest. You never know when you'll get a chance to sleep. Well, I'm off.”
Ivanov decided to take the captain's advice and headed up the stairs to his room. As soon as he laid down on the bed he realised he was exhausted. He didn't even bother to take of his coat before he fell into a deep sleep.
He was standing on a gentle slope that was surprisingly hard to stand still on. He had to struggle not to slide down. Right next to him a man was trying to reach his legs. They were still twitching and just out of the reach of the man. Ivanov wondered why there was no blood. Someone was crying but he was unable to see where. When he turned in one direction it seemed to come from behind him, when he turned around the sound would move again. The crying was both intense and discreet, as if someone didn't want to bother anyone with their sorrow.
An enemy came walking up the slope. Ivanov had to struggle more than ever to stay still but the enemy just walked casually with a smile on his lips. It was a smile that both mocked Ivanov and contained a hint of sadness at the thought of what was to come. Ivanov found that he had a rifle in his hands. He fired at the enemy, shot after shot until he had to reload. He found it incredibly hard to reload. Every stage took forever and he fumbled and dropped bullets on the ground. Somehow he managed to get another clip into the rifle. He fired again and again. But the enemy didn't stop, he just kept coming. Ivanov found it hard to breathe, he tried to flee up the slope but it was impossible. With every step he only slid down further and he could feel the enemy closing in. Paralysed by panic he could only stand still.
He breathed rapidly until he realised that it had only been a dream. He was soaked in sweat and had somehow kicked of one of his boots. As he regained control over himself the details of the dream faded away and he could only remember the overwhelming fear he had felt. He had to wait five minutes until he got up and took of his coat to cool down. As he was putting it away he happened to feel an odd shape inside it that he didn't recognise. Couldn't be his wallet. Had Dimitrov put some incriminating material in there as revenge for his failure to cooperate? The thought was both amusing and frightening. He quickly pulled out the object out of a pocket only to find that it was a calendar. The kind you could buy in any store back home.
Then he remembered. That day in the naval officers' – was it Volskij?- home. It was only two months ago but it felt very distant. He must have taken the calendar with him and then forgotten to hand it over when the NKVD decided that the investigation was complete. He hadn't even looked at it. He laughed quietly at the thought of having outsmarted the NKVD. Looks like the GRU wins this one comrades, even if it is a small victory. Without delay he opened the calendar.
Nothing earth-shattering precisely, Volskij had had a life that didn't require much planning. Mentions of military conferences and important briefings. Calling a superior officer by a colourful nickname was something that would interest the NKVD but to Ivanov it finally revealed a hint of character in the pale Volskij. He met with someone called Sasha once in a while. Ivanov made a note of it and flipped forward to the interesting pages around the time of Volskij's death. Once again, nothing peculiar. Volskij had a dentist appointment the day after he was found dead in his apartment.
Then he remembered it. Sasha! That was what had been written on that letter that had started the whole thing. Sasha and something else. Ivanov struggled for a while until it came to him. Sasha twenty-six. Possibly thirty-six. On a hunch he looked at the 26th of June, nineteen days after Volskij's death. There it was, just a few short words in Volskij's neat handwriting.
Sasha – 1700 The Torpedo
The name was very suitable for a naval officer. Ivanov turned back to the previous entries that mentioned Sasha. Same time, same place at every single one. He turned forward to see if any more meetings with Sasha had been decided upon. Nothing, the 26th of June was the last entry. He looked through the calendar once more, this time with a considerably larger interest. Nothing else surfaced, except that Volskij had met Sasha at least once every month. A lover maybe? But why write about it in a calendar that was right on his desk, what if his wife saw it? Then again, he couldn't count on Volskij being perfectly logical.
He spent the next ten minutes sitting on his bed, smoking cigarettes and trying to figure out just what this meant. He was so distraught he didn't notice the Spanish aide who entered. The aide had to cough twice to get his attention.
“Beg your pardon, lieutenant. You have a phone call from captain de Jovellanos. If you'd follow me please...”
As Ivanov went down the stairs he glanced out the window and noticed that it was getting dark and grey clouds were gathering. He wondered how long he had been up there, sleeping and studying the calendar. He picked up the phone in a small booth on the ground floor.
“Hello?”
“Ivanov, is that you?”
“Yes, captain.”
“Good. Listen carefully. I've talked to some friends, both here and down south. Things are heating up in Barcelona, quickly. The anarchists are taking over here, the city is like a war zone. I need you to pack your bag and come here. Things are different now, you understand? Private Goya will give you a lift, just give him the receiver.”
“Wait, captain. What about the battalion? And what about Dimitrov?”
“No time for questions, Ivanov! I'll explain everything once you get here. It's a matter of life or death.”
Ivanov handed the phone receiver to Goya who had been looking in another direction and pretending as if he wasn't eavesdropping. A conversation in Spanish began between the captain and Goya and Ivanov found it best to go up to his room and get his things. When he got back down no one even saw that he was carrying a suitcase. The Spanish officers were loudly debating and didn't look behind them to see Ivanov and Goya walk out the back door.
It began to rain as Ivanov and Goya stepped into an army lorry. The dry earth greedily absorbed every drop and the rain even washed away the blood that was still on the ground in the aid station.
“Come, lieutenant.”
“Excuse me, captain, I was just wondering if you had seen commissar Dimitrov?”
The captain seemed to be deep in his own thoughts. Ivanov repeated his question.
“Ah yes, I think he's at HQ. Not much for him to do I'm afraid. Come along to HQ, will you? I've got some tactical problems. Finally a chance for you to do your job.”
Ivanov had almost forgotten the charade he was supposed to be playing. He tensed up at the prospect of making a complete fool out of himself in front of several Spanish officers. If he was going to tell the truth to de Jovellanos, this was the time. But he couldn't muster the courage and decided to postpone the shame. Maybe he could think of something to say until then.
The mood in the restaurant had deteriorated severely since before the attack. The uniforms seemed dirtier, the faces not quite so poised, some chairs were empty. Casualty lists were being written, letters home drafted. de Jovellanos' dog however was snoozing on the floor as if nothing had happened. In one corner sat commissar Dimitrov reading something he tried to keep hidden from everyone else. As soon as he saw Ivanov he motioned for him to come over.
“I need to talk to you. I've got some disturbing news from Barcelona. Apparently some of our comrades in the communist party there have been attacked by anarchists. It's a very volatile situation.”
“Yes? But that is hardly any of our business.”
“Oh don't be a fool, Ivanov. My orders are to help the Spanish comrades in any way.”
This was new to Ivanov. His briefing on the political situation in Spain had been sketchy to say the least. The GRU officer supposedly responsible for Spanish affairs had gained most of his knowledge from ten years old encyclopaedia entries.
“I'm sorry, comrade. My orders are to stay with this battalion, and nothing else.”
Dimitrov's grimace seemed to sum up all his contempt for Ivanov and his kind.
“Very well, I'll go into Barcelona myself. That is where history will be written, not here with these upper class officers.”
Ivanov left Dimitrov and walked over to the map. de Jovellanos turned to him.
“Ah, lieutenant. Change of plans. I'm going to consult with my colleagues at Division HQ, everything's different now you see. Our enemies seem to be retreating again, possibly even dispersing. It's a political matter now.”
Ivanov felt an extreme elation and could have hugged de Jovellanos at that moment for liberating him from certain embarrassment.
“That means you won't be needing an analysis then, captain?”
“Quite. Why don't you get some rest. You never know when you'll get a chance to sleep. Well, I'm off.”
Ivanov decided to take the captain's advice and headed up the stairs to his room. As soon as he laid down on the bed he realised he was exhausted. He didn't even bother to take of his coat before he fell into a deep sleep.
He was standing on a gentle slope that was surprisingly hard to stand still on. He had to struggle not to slide down. Right next to him a man was trying to reach his legs. They were still twitching and just out of the reach of the man. Ivanov wondered why there was no blood. Someone was crying but he was unable to see where. When he turned in one direction it seemed to come from behind him, when he turned around the sound would move again. The crying was both intense and discreet, as if someone didn't want to bother anyone with their sorrow.
An enemy came walking up the slope. Ivanov had to struggle more than ever to stay still but the enemy just walked casually with a smile on his lips. It was a smile that both mocked Ivanov and contained a hint of sadness at the thought of what was to come. Ivanov found that he had a rifle in his hands. He fired at the enemy, shot after shot until he had to reload. He found it incredibly hard to reload. Every stage took forever and he fumbled and dropped bullets on the ground. Somehow he managed to get another clip into the rifle. He fired again and again. But the enemy didn't stop, he just kept coming. Ivanov found it hard to breathe, he tried to flee up the slope but it was impossible. With every step he only slid down further and he could feel the enemy closing in. Paralysed by panic he could only stand still.
He breathed rapidly until he realised that it had only been a dream. He was soaked in sweat and had somehow kicked of one of his boots. As he regained control over himself the details of the dream faded away and he could only remember the overwhelming fear he had felt. He had to wait five minutes until he got up and took of his coat to cool down. As he was putting it away he happened to feel an odd shape inside it that he didn't recognise. Couldn't be his wallet. Had Dimitrov put some incriminating material in there as revenge for his failure to cooperate? The thought was both amusing and frightening. He quickly pulled out the object out of a pocket only to find that it was a calendar. The kind you could buy in any store back home.
Then he remembered. That day in the naval officers' – was it Volskij?- home. It was only two months ago but it felt very distant. He must have taken the calendar with him and then forgotten to hand it over when the NKVD decided that the investigation was complete. He hadn't even looked at it. He laughed quietly at the thought of having outsmarted the NKVD. Looks like the GRU wins this one comrades, even if it is a small victory. Without delay he opened the calendar.
Nothing earth-shattering precisely, Volskij had had a life that didn't require much planning. Mentions of military conferences and important briefings. Calling a superior officer by a colourful nickname was something that would interest the NKVD but to Ivanov it finally revealed a hint of character in the pale Volskij. He met with someone called Sasha once in a while. Ivanov made a note of it and flipped forward to the interesting pages around the time of Volskij's death. Once again, nothing peculiar. Volskij had a dentist appointment the day after he was found dead in his apartment.
Then he remembered it. Sasha! That was what had been written on that letter that had started the whole thing. Sasha and something else. Ivanov struggled for a while until it came to him. Sasha twenty-six. Possibly thirty-six. On a hunch he looked at the 26th of June, nineteen days after Volskij's death. There it was, just a few short words in Volskij's neat handwriting.
Sasha – 1700 The Torpedo
The name was very suitable for a naval officer. Ivanov turned back to the previous entries that mentioned Sasha. Same time, same place at every single one. He turned forward to see if any more meetings with Sasha had been decided upon. Nothing, the 26th of June was the last entry. He looked through the calendar once more, this time with a considerably larger interest. Nothing else surfaced, except that Volskij had met Sasha at least once every month. A lover maybe? But why write about it in a calendar that was right on his desk, what if his wife saw it? Then again, he couldn't count on Volskij being perfectly logical.
He spent the next ten minutes sitting on his bed, smoking cigarettes and trying to figure out just what this meant. He was so distraught he didn't notice the Spanish aide who entered. The aide had to cough twice to get his attention.
“Beg your pardon, lieutenant. You have a phone call from captain de Jovellanos. If you'd follow me please...”
As Ivanov went down the stairs he glanced out the window and noticed that it was getting dark and grey clouds were gathering. He wondered how long he had been up there, sleeping and studying the calendar. He picked up the phone in a small booth on the ground floor.
“Hello?”
“Ivanov, is that you?”
“Yes, captain.”
“Good. Listen carefully. I've talked to some friends, both here and down south. Things are heating up in Barcelona, quickly. The anarchists are taking over here, the city is like a war zone. I need you to pack your bag and come here. Things are different now, you understand? Private Goya will give you a lift, just give him the receiver.”
“Wait, captain. What about the battalion? And what about Dimitrov?”
“No time for questions, Ivanov! I'll explain everything once you get here. It's a matter of life or death.”
Ivanov handed the phone receiver to Goya who had been looking in another direction and pretending as if he wasn't eavesdropping. A conversation in Spanish began between the captain and Goya and Ivanov found it best to go up to his room and get his things. When he got back down no one even saw that he was carrying a suitcase. The Spanish officers were loudly debating and didn't look behind them to see Ivanov and Goya walk out the back door.
It began to rain as Ivanov and Goya stepped into an army lorry. The dry earth greedily absorbed every drop and the rain even washed away the blood that was still on the ground in the aid station.
vigilantsldr - Done and done. 
Looks like I failed my ambitious goal of reaching page three. My only excuse is that I was knocked out by a nasty cold and I've spent the last couple of days producing phlegm rather than updates. Now, I'll leave you with that nasty mental picture and a short update.
Looks like I failed my ambitious goal of reaching page three. My only excuse is that I was knocked out by a nasty cold and I've spent the last couple of days producing phlegm rather than updates. Now, I'll leave you with that nasty mental picture and a short update.
The lorry bounced and shook on the slippery road. Private Goya spent too little time watching the road and too much time talking. At least that's what Ivanov thought. He had thought that this would be a perfect opportunity for clearing out the tangled web that had gathered during the day. Since his arrival in Spain he had for the first time been shot at, seen men die and realised that he had no idea what he was doing here. He could use some time to think.
“You see, before the war I studied literature at the university in Madrid. I specialised in Russian literature.”
Ivanov replied with a polite smile. Even though Goya was a private and he was an officer he couldn't bring himself to tell him to be quiet.
“I'm sure you know this much better than I do, I only studied it for two years. I'll go back once the war is over though. I'm especially interested in Tolstoy.”
Goya talked in great detail about his theories concerning what Tolstoy had meant with certain passages. Ivanov nodded and found that the pouring rain created an effective way for him to tune out Goya's speculations. At last a chance to think. If Dimitrov had gone into Barcelona, assuming that's what he did, what was he doing now? He spoke no Spanish, but he was probably up on some barricade. He didn't know Dimitrov well but he did strike him as the kind of man who wanted to lead a revolution. At least he was the kind of man who wanted to strike heroic poses and storm the Bastille. The sound of Goya's voice had been absent for some time and Ivanov assumed that he had asked a question.
“I'm sorry, private?”
“I said, what are your thoughts on Raskolnikov?”
Ivanov dragged his mind back to those long lessons during which Mr Saltov had tried to make his class understand the complexities of the Russian masters. Ivanov had only read the first chapter of “Crime and Punishment”. Absent-mindedly he wondered how he escaped punishment for that.
“I'd much rather hear what you think.”
Goya shone up and began talking, no, lecturing. Ivanov felt sorry for Goya's teachers. So Dimitrov was in Barcelona and most likely getting himself into trouble. What would his superiors say if Ivanov allowed a commissar to get himself killed? Ivanov had been told time and time again to always obey orders. But now he didn't even now where his nearest superior officer was. His orders had been given to him when he left Sevastopol. He was to stay with that battalion until he or the battalion was no more.
Ivanov had been made lieutenant merely for bureaucratic reasons. He had earned his rank in a school bench, studying logistics and strategy. Never had he been told: “Here's what do you do if you find yourself as a military adviser in a chaotic country and your orders are hazy.” About time he found the answer to that one himself.
“Did captain de Jovellanos tell you anything about what had happened in Barcelona?”
He interrupted Goya just as he was entering a sidetrack about St Petersburg's architecture.
“No, lieutenant. All he told me was to take you to a certain street in Barcelona as fast as possible. I trust the captain.”
Ivanov looked out the window and saw that they were now in Barcelona. Goya tried to read the street signs but in the heavy rain visibility was very low and he had to get out to see where they were. Just one block down they found captain de Jovellanos waiting besides his car. Ivanov got out of the lorry.
“You made it here fast, Ivanov. I need your help I'm afraid. I'm truly sorry.”
de Jovellanos pointed with his hand towards a lamppost. At first Ivanov couldn't see what he was pointing at. A flash of lightning split the night. For just a second it lit up the street and Ivanov could clearly see Dimitrov's lifeless body hanging from the lamppost, swaying gently.
“You see, before the war I studied literature at the university in Madrid. I specialised in Russian literature.”
Ivanov replied with a polite smile. Even though Goya was a private and he was an officer he couldn't bring himself to tell him to be quiet.
“I'm sure you know this much better than I do, I only studied it for two years. I'll go back once the war is over though. I'm especially interested in Tolstoy.”
Goya talked in great detail about his theories concerning what Tolstoy had meant with certain passages. Ivanov nodded and found that the pouring rain created an effective way for him to tune out Goya's speculations. At last a chance to think. If Dimitrov had gone into Barcelona, assuming that's what he did, what was he doing now? He spoke no Spanish, but he was probably up on some barricade. He didn't know Dimitrov well but he did strike him as the kind of man who wanted to lead a revolution. At least he was the kind of man who wanted to strike heroic poses and storm the Bastille. The sound of Goya's voice had been absent for some time and Ivanov assumed that he had asked a question.
“I'm sorry, private?”
“I said, what are your thoughts on Raskolnikov?”
Ivanov dragged his mind back to those long lessons during which Mr Saltov had tried to make his class understand the complexities of the Russian masters. Ivanov had only read the first chapter of “Crime and Punishment”. Absent-mindedly he wondered how he escaped punishment for that.
“I'd much rather hear what you think.”
Goya shone up and began talking, no, lecturing. Ivanov felt sorry for Goya's teachers. So Dimitrov was in Barcelona and most likely getting himself into trouble. What would his superiors say if Ivanov allowed a commissar to get himself killed? Ivanov had been told time and time again to always obey orders. But now he didn't even now where his nearest superior officer was. His orders had been given to him when he left Sevastopol. He was to stay with that battalion until he or the battalion was no more.
Ivanov had been made lieutenant merely for bureaucratic reasons. He had earned his rank in a school bench, studying logistics and strategy. Never had he been told: “Here's what do you do if you find yourself as a military adviser in a chaotic country and your orders are hazy.” About time he found the answer to that one himself.
“Did captain de Jovellanos tell you anything about what had happened in Barcelona?”
He interrupted Goya just as he was entering a sidetrack about St Petersburg's architecture.
“No, lieutenant. All he told me was to take you to a certain street in Barcelona as fast as possible. I trust the captain.”
Ivanov looked out the window and saw that they were now in Barcelona. Goya tried to read the street signs but in the heavy rain visibility was very low and he had to get out to see where they were. Just one block down they found captain de Jovellanos waiting besides his car. Ivanov got out of the lorry.
“You made it here fast, Ivanov. I need your help I'm afraid. I'm truly sorry.”
de Jovellanos pointed with his hand towards a lamppost. At first Ivanov couldn't see what he was pointing at. A flash of lightning split the night. For just a second it lit up the street and Ivanov could clearly see Dimitrov's lifeless body hanging from the lamppost, swaying gently.
This is just awesome, I'm glad I caught it when it was beginning, I'm subscribing right now.
As for you asking for help on your writing, and the lack of responses, that's not us feeling sorry for you, that's us realizing there's not a heck of a lot to fix. Keep it up!
As for you asking for help on your writing, and the lack of responses, that's not us feeling sorry for you, that's us realizing there's not a heck of a lot to fix. Keep it up!
Damn the principles, full speed ahead!
So I had made it a point not to post here unless I was about to update, to keep myself from falling into the perverted spamming swamp. With that principle broken however I'm doomed to a life of crime and corruption. Send me a thought when I'm sitting on the sidewalk with a sign saying: "Will write AAR for food", because that's where I'm headed. Yup.
Corruption - Flattery will get you far! Thanks for reading.
vigilantsldr - Well for now, until I can get that deal with Hello Kitty.
Joepritch2 - You sure know what to say to make a guy want to keep writing. Thanks.
As you might have guessed by my confused rant I do in fact not have an update to post right now. Alas, for time has slipped out of my hands like a slippery raccoon and I'm only now catching it. I'll have an update in uh half an hour maybe? See you then, folks!
Update: Ah, finally. I'm about to collapse due to OD'ing on caffeine. Dark master coffee takes his share for keeping me awake this far. Now to fall into an uneasy sleep that will end when I wake up tomorrow with a sore throat and a bad breath capable of killing small animals. Apologies for an unedited update, maybe I'll get around to fixing the typos tomorrow.
So I had made it a point not to post here unless I was about to update, to keep myself from falling into the perverted spamming swamp. With that principle broken however I'm doomed to a life of crime and corruption. Send me a thought when I'm sitting on the sidewalk with a sign saying: "Will write AAR for food", because that's where I'm headed. Yup.
Corruption - Flattery will get you far! Thanks for reading.
vigilantsldr - Well for now, until I can get that deal with Hello Kitty.
Joepritch2 - You sure know what to say to make a guy want to keep writing. Thanks.
As you might have guessed by my confused rant I do in fact not have an update to post right now. Alas, for time has slipped out of my hands like a slippery raccoon and I'm only now catching it. I'll have an update in uh half an hour maybe? See you then, folks!
Update: Ah, finally. I'm about to collapse due to OD'ing on caffeine. Dark master coffee takes his share for keeping me awake this far. Now to fall into an uneasy sleep that will end when I wake up tomorrow with a sore throat and a bad breath capable of killing small animals. Apologies for an unedited update, maybe I'll get around to fixing the typos tomorrow.
Last edited:
They worked quickly and without talking. de Jovellanos cut off the rope and Goya and Ivanov held Dimitrov's body. Ivanov tried not to look at Dimitrov's face but at one point he happened to stare directly into his eyes. They were almost bulging out of their sockets, staring back defiantly. Dimitrov's face was horribly bloated and blue. He looked like a twisted caricature of himself. They managed to lay the body down on the street. Ivanov bent down and checked Dimitrov's pockets.
One pen. One notebook. One wallet. Inside the wallet 234 roubles and two photographies. The first photo showed an old woman and an old man posing with serious looks and their best clothes on. Dimitrov's parents no doubt. The realisation that their son was lying dead on a pavement in Barcelona was almost to much for Ivanov. The second photo showed a young woman smiling at the photographer. The photo had been taken outside, during the summer it seemed. Ivanov knew more about Dimitrov now that he was dead. At least three people would be crying over Dimitrov once they got the news. Ivanov decided to get in touch with all of them. The least he could was return the photographs before they were swallowed by some bureaucratic abyss.
Ignoring the thoughts about who would miss him if he died, Ivanov looked up to see that only de Jovellanos was still standing on the street. No one else was outside. The people of Barcelona were intimidated by the strife between the anarchists and communists and further motivated to stay inside by the heavy rain.
“Once again, I'm terribly sorry.”
“Not your fault. Do you know what happened?”
de Jovellanos sighed and looked at his shoes.
“Earlier today the home of an anarchist representative was burned to the ground. He wasn't at home but his wife and daughter were. Needless to say the anarchists were enraged. They've been roaming the streets all day, looking for someone to take it out on. I'm not sure, but it's possible they found your friend and killed him because he's a Russian commissar.”
Ivanov didn't say anything, he merely put Dimitrov's possessions in his pocket. There was something ironic about an innocent man dying to pay for the death of other innocent people.
“Tell me, did you know if he was a religious man?”
At first Ivanov thought he could only laugh at the notion but he remembered how little he really had known about the commissar.
“No, I don't know.”
“Well, better safe than sorry.”
Under the cover of night the three men buried commissar Dimitrov under a palm tree in the Parc de la Ciutadella.
de Jovellanos sent Goya back to the battalion with the lorry. He and Ivanov got into his car. They sat quiet for at least ten minutes as the rain hammered on the roof of the car. Finally de Jovellanos broke the silence.
“You understand that we have to leave Barcelona?”
“What? But the police, the army...this was done by criminals, hooligans.”
“Maybe so, but they will be running this city by tomorrow. The government is willing to do anything to defeat the rebels. And so they're giving some degree of independence to Catalunya.”
de Jovellanos noted Ivanov's confusion.
“Catalunya has had quite a lot of independence in the past as well, it goes back a long way. Now the government is increasing that independence. Most likely some politician have promised them that they'll get the full help of all the army divisions here and I suppose workers militia. Things must be worse than they say.”
“So? Why can't you just stay and fight, even if it is under a different flag? You're still fighting for the same thing.”
“Oh sure. Except that either the anarchists or the communists will be ruling Barcelona from now on. My father, baron de Jovellanos, is most likely sitting at his mansion with a rifle in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other, waiting for the anarchists to come. They'll kill him, I know that. They think every noble family is on the rebel side, and they'll be more than happy to expropriate everything we own. Then they'll drive out to battalion and ask for me. They want to replace the old officers with new, ones they can control. And if they by some miracle let me live I'll be isolated at some useless post. No, I joined the army to fight. And I know where I can.”
“And where is that?”
“Down south, with the real army. This army will soon be controlled by the politicians, believe me. I can't imagine a worse fate for an army.”
“What do you expect me to do? I'm put in an awfully sensitive situation, you know.”
“I know, I know. Look, I want you to come with me to Murcia. Your superiors are there, right? So, you just explain what happened.”
Ivanov was baffled. The first thing he had learnt in the Red Army was that you never told your superiors the truth. He hesitated.
“The anarchists and the communists will go after each other, that's for sure. The army won't be able to guarantee your security here. Any day they might decide to kill you. Better to act now than wait for someone else to act.”
“I suppose you're right. What now, back to battalion?”
de Jovellanos grimaced and looked out the window.
“No, that won't be needed. I've already talked to the other officers and given them the choice of leaving or staying. It's not right to leave your men, I know that. But what use am I to them dead?”
“Are they all staying?”
“No, some are leaving. But we're leaving at different times, from different places. To avoid confusion. Do you have a weapon?”
Ivanov nodded, still feeling the uncomfortable weight of his revolver.
“Just a revolver.”
“That's good enough. It's not far, only about six hundred kilometres.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean? We're driving down to Murcia, that's what I mean.”
Ivanov couldn't bring himself to protest the very idea. Someone else taking command was a huge relief, no thinking, just doing as he was told. His brain was busy finding holes in the crazy scheme, but he managed to stop that. Except for one huge hole.
“How do we get past the front?”
“I'm still thinking about that.”
de Jovellanos started the engine and they were off.
One pen. One notebook. One wallet. Inside the wallet 234 roubles and two photographies. The first photo showed an old woman and an old man posing with serious looks and their best clothes on. Dimitrov's parents no doubt. The realisation that their son was lying dead on a pavement in Barcelona was almost to much for Ivanov. The second photo showed a young woman smiling at the photographer. The photo had been taken outside, during the summer it seemed. Ivanov knew more about Dimitrov now that he was dead. At least three people would be crying over Dimitrov once they got the news. Ivanov decided to get in touch with all of them. The least he could was return the photographs before they were swallowed by some bureaucratic abyss.
Ignoring the thoughts about who would miss him if he died, Ivanov looked up to see that only de Jovellanos was still standing on the street. No one else was outside. The people of Barcelona were intimidated by the strife between the anarchists and communists and further motivated to stay inside by the heavy rain.
“Once again, I'm terribly sorry.”
“Not your fault. Do you know what happened?”
de Jovellanos sighed and looked at his shoes.
“Earlier today the home of an anarchist representative was burned to the ground. He wasn't at home but his wife and daughter were. Needless to say the anarchists were enraged. They've been roaming the streets all day, looking for someone to take it out on. I'm not sure, but it's possible they found your friend and killed him because he's a Russian commissar.”
Ivanov didn't say anything, he merely put Dimitrov's possessions in his pocket. There was something ironic about an innocent man dying to pay for the death of other innocent people.
“Tell me, did you know if he was a religious man?”
At first Ivanov thought he could only laugh at the notion but he remembered how little he really had known about the commissar.
“No, I don't know.”
“Well, better safe than sorry.”
Under the cover of night the three men buried commissar Dimitrov under a palm tree in the Parc de la Ciutadella.
de Jovellanos sent Goya back to the battalion with the lorry. He and Ivanov got into his car. They sat quiet for at least ten minutes as the rain hammered on the roof of the car. Finally de Jovellanos broke the silence.
“You understand that we have to leave Barcelona?”
“What? But the police, the army...this was done by criminals, hooligans.”
“Maybe so, but they will be running this city by tomorrow. The government is willing to do anything to defeat the rebels. And so they're giving some degree of independence to Catalunya.”
de Jovellanos noted Ivanov's confusion.
“Catalunya has had quite a lot of independence in the past as well, it goes back a long way. Now the government is increasing that independence. Most likely some politician have promised them that they'll get the full help of all the army divisions here and I suppose workers militia. Things must be worse than they say.”
“So? Why can't you just stay and fight, even if it is under a different flag? You're still fighting for the same thing.”
“Oh sure. Except that either the anarchists or the communists will be ruling Barcelona from now on. My father, baron de Jovellanos, is most likely sitting at his mansion with a rifle in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other, waiting for the anarchists to come. They'll kill him, I know that. They think every noble family is on the rebel side, and they'll be more than happy to expropriate everything we own. Then they'll drive out to battalion and ask for me. They want to replace the old officers with new, ones they can control. And if they by some miracle let me live I'll be isolated at some useless post. No, I joined the army to fight. And I know where I can.”
“And where is that?”
“Down south, with the real army. This army will soon be controlled by the politicians, believe me. I can't imagine a worse fate for an army.”
“What do you expect me to do? I'm put in an awfully sensitive situation, you know.”
“I know, I know. Look, I want you to come with me to Murcia. Your superiors are there, right? So, you just explain what happened.”
Ivanov was baffled. The first thing he had learnt in the Red Army was that you never told your superiors the truth. He hesitated.
“The anarchists and the communists will go after each other, that's for sure. The army won't be able to guarantee your security here. Any day they might decide to kill you. Better to act now than wait for someone else to act.”
“I suppose you're right. What now, back to battalion?”
de Jovellanos grimaced and looked out the window.
“No, that won't be needed. I've already talked to the other officers and given them the choice of leaving or staying. It's not right to leave your men, I know that. But what use am I to them dead?”
“Are they all staying?”
“No, some are leaving. But we're leaving at different times, from different places. To avoid confusion. Do you have a weapon?”
Ivanov nodded, still feeling the uncomfortable weight of his revolver.
“Just a revolver.”
“That's good enough. It's not far, only about six hundred kilometres.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean? We're driving down to Murcia, that's what I mean.”
Ivanov couldn't bring himself to protest the very idea. Someone else taking command was a huge relief, no thinking, just doing as he was told. His brain was busy finding holes in the crazy scheme, but he managed to stop that. Except for one huge hole.
“How do we get past the front?”
“I'm still thinking about that.”
de Jovellanos started the engine and they were off.
Another relapse into laziness and another visit to page two. Oh well. I won't promise that I'll update more often this time, since I seem unable to keep such promises. (Just between you and me, I'll try to update more, just don't tell anyone)
Corruption - You got it, buddy.
Corruption - You got it, buddy.
July 29 – Cartagena, Spain
“A beautiful day for flying, don't you think Oleg?”
“Yes, it is. Maybe we'll be able to get the birds into the air today. The Spanish are eager to see how they perform.”
“If we're lucky some fascists might come along for some fun, that would be quite a show.”
“I hope you haven't forgotten our little bet, Petya.”
“Of course not, I hope you haven't forgotten to bring your money.”
The two pilots laughed. Before leaving Russia they had agreed that whoever shot down a fascist first would get five roubles from the other. Oleg noticed a stack of large boxes. Nothing odd about that, except that they were guarded by several Spanish soldiers.
“Wonder what's in those boxes that makes them so important?”
Petya took a quick look at the boxes. “I have a hunch.”
“What?”
“I heard some chekists talking about it in Sevastopol. I think that would be the Spanish gold reserve, they're giving it to us. As security for all the supplies we're giving them.”
“What, the entire gold reserve? Must be worth millions.”
“Guess so. Good thing though.”
“How so?”
“Well, how much did this cost for the state? Tonnes of supplies, those transports and enough officers to fill the Frunze academy. I don't know the Spaniards, we shouldn't take any chances.”
“Come on, this is a country, not Raskolnikov. What are they going to do, move across the Atlantic and change their name?”
Petya couldn't help but smile and decided to continue down the chosen path.
“Your silliness only reveals your ignorance of how nations work. You must see...”
The discussion continued as they strolled to the lorry that would be taking them to the airfield. They got in the back, joining the other pilots.
“Does anyone know what kind of opposition we'll be up against?”
“I've heard they don't even have planes. Just balloons, from the last war.”
“Balloons? That means even you'll be able to shoot down something, Nikita.”
Everyone shared a good laugh that almost drenched out the sputtering of the lorry. It felt like they were a bunch of friends going on a trip to the beach rather than soldiers going into war. They didn't think of it, hiding any concerns behind bravado and nonchalance.
The airfield looked exactly like the kind of airfields they were used to from back home. That and the fact that the planes they had been flying for years were being unloaded gave them a certain sense of security. The Soviet pilots and the Spanish pilots observed each other with curiosity. Both groups talked, joked and laughed loudly. A Spanish air force officer held a short speech in Spanish and memorised Russian. After polite applause from the pilots he divided them into groups of one Soviet pilot and four or five Spanish pilots. His pronunciation of the Russian names drew the compulsory laughs from the Soviet pilots.
Oleg found himself in front of four Spanish pilots, at his side a translator from some university.
“Dear colleagues, I am Starshiyi Leytenant Lebedev. I haven't really got the hang of how our ranks compare so let's say we're all equal. Call me Oleg. Come on, we'll go and have a look at the plane.”
Oleg found a plane that wasn't already crawling with pointing Soviets and gawking Spaniards. He checked the state of the rudders and ailerons without even thinking. Looked like the long journey hadn't done any damage.
“This is the Polikarpov I-16. The finest fighter in the world. Honestly. As you see, it has a retractable landing gear and a variable pitch propeller. The first gives better performance, naturally. The second is a bit tricky to use but once you learn how you can really get that extra bit of speed out of your plane. What else? It has a top speed of about five hundred kilometres per hour. It's got a thousand horse-power engine. Two machine guns, two 20 mm cannons. The last thing you have to worry about is firepower, believe me.”
The revolutionary Polikarpov I-16
He paused to remember what he was supposed to say. The translator was still struggling to find a Spanish word for variable pitch.
“And a few words on tactics. In this plane you can outfly anything you might come up against. Should that not be the case however, try to get in close and outturn your opponent. The rest, well I think you know everything else already.”
The Spanish pilots we're soon studying every detail of the I-16, asking questions that forced the translator to find a Spanish-Russian technical dictionary.
The day ended with a dinner in the officers mess. The pilots managed to somehow overcome the language barriers. One Spanish pilot told a story about bombing rebels in North Africa. One Soviet pilots countered with stories about dogfights with the Japanese in the far east. They drank to each others health, they exchanged cigarettes, they shared tactics using many gestures. Friendships were sealed in alcohol and the realisation that for whatever reason they would be fighting on the same side.
“A beautiful day for flying, don't you think Oleg?”
“Yes, it is. Maybe we'll be able to get the birds into the air today. The Spanish are eager to see how they perform.”
“If we're lucky some fascists might come along for some fun, that would be quite a show.”
“I hope you haven't forgotten our little bet, Petya.”
“Of course not, I hope you haven't forgotten to bring your money.”
The two pilots laughed. Before leaving Russia they had agreed that whoever shot down a fascist first would get five roubles from the other. Oleg noticed a stack of large boxes. Nothing odd about that, except that they were guarded by several Spanish soldiers.
“Wonder what's in those boxes that makes them so important?”
Petya took a quick look at the boxes. “I have a hunch.”
“What?”
“I heard some chekists talking about it in Sevastopol. I think that would be the Spanish gold reserve, they're giving it to us. As security for all the supplies we're giving them.”
“What, the entire gold reserve? Must be worth millions.”
“Guess so. Good thing though.”
“How so?”
“Well, how much did this cost for the state? Tonnes of supplies, those transports and enough officers to fill the Frunze academy. I don't know the Spaniards, we shouldn't take any chances.”
“Come on, this is a country, not Raskolnikov. What are they going to do, move across the Atlantic and change their name?”
Petya couldn't help but smile and decided to continue down the chosen path.
“Your silliness only reveals your ignorance of how nations work. You must see...”
The discussion continued as they strolled to the lorry that would be taking them to the airfield. They got in the back, joining the other pilots.
“Does anyone know what kind of opposition we'll be up against?”
“I've heard they don't even have planes. Just balloons, from the last war.”
“Balloons? That means even you'll be able to shoot down something, Nikita.”
Everyone shared a good laugh that almost drenched out the sputtering of the lorry. It felt like they were a bunch of friends going on a trip to the beach rather than soldiers going into war. They didn't think of it, hiding any concerns behind bravado and nonchalance.
The airfield looked exactly like the kind of airfields they were used to from back home. That and the fact that the planes they had been flying for years were being unloaded gave them a certain sense of security. The Soviet pilots and the Spanish pilots observed each other with curiosity. Both groups talked, joked and laughed loudly. A Spanish air force officer held a short speech in Spanish and memorised Russian. After polite applause from the pilots he divided them into groups of one Soviet pilot and four or five Spanish pilots. His pronunciation of the Russian names drew the compulsory laughs from the Soviet pilots.
Oleg found himself in front of four Spanish pilots, at his side a translator from some university.
“Dear colleagues, I am Starshiyi Leytenant Lebedev. I haven't really got the hang of how our ranks compare so let's say we're all equal. Call me Oleg. Come on, we'll go and have a look at the plane.”
Oleg found a plane that wasn't already crawling with pointing Soviets and gawking Spaniards. He checked the state of the rudders and ailerons without even thinking. Looked like the long journey hadn't done any damage.
“This is the Polikarpov I-16. The finest fighter in the world. Honestly. As you see, it has a retractable landing gear and a variable pitch propeller. The first gives better performance, naturally. The second is a bit tricky to use but once you learn how you can really get that extra bit of speed out of your plane. What else? It has a top speed of about five hundred kilometres per hour. It's got a thousand horse-power engine. Two machine guns, two 20 mm cannons. The last thing you have to worry about is firepower, believe me.”
The revolutionary Polikarpov I-16
He paused to remember what he was supposed to say. The translator was still struggling to find a Spanish word for variable pitch.
“And a few words on tactics. In this plane you can outfly anything you might come up against. Should that not be the case however, try to get in close and outturn your opponent. The rest, well I think you know everything else already.”
The Spanish pilots we're soon studying every detail of the I-16, asking questions that forced the translator to find a Spanish-Russian technical dictionary.
The day ended with a dinner in the officers mess. The pilots managed to somehow overcome the language barriers. One Spanish pilot told a story about bombing rebels in North Africa. One Soviet pilots countered with stories about dogfights with the Japanese in the far east. They drank to each others health, they exchanged cigarettes, they shared tactics using many gestures. Friendships were sealed in alcohol and the realisation that for whatever reason they would be fighting on the same side.
Last edited:
July 29 - Outskirts of Barcelona
The road was filled with people. People shouting, eating, waiting. A mother was scolding her son for some careless act. Two men were arguing about what to remove from their overloaded cart. A woman feeding a horse. Despite their individuality they all shared one goal; Barcelona, and one feeling; anxiety. The road was blocked some place to the north and now the entire column of refugees was standing still. Ivanov and de Jovellanos were also standing still, despite the fact that they were supposed to be going southwards. They had been stopped by some loyalist soldiers who had put up a temporary roadblock, looking for something. Orders to be followed, as usual.
Ivanov yawned. The burst of adrenaline he had received during yesterday's barrage and the night's horrible discovery had gone and left him feeling spent. He tried to observe the refugees, partially in an attempt to gather some information, partially to keep his brain working. He failed on both counts, his thoughts drifted.
Just two weeks ago these people had been at home. They had worried about money, toothaches, lost pets, taxes, meddling relatives, that door that needs fixing and a thousand other things. War had boiled down to their worries to just a handful. Where am I going to sleep tonight? What are we going to eat? Will we make it? Ivanov was happy that at least he was under the protection of his uniform which, in an unspoken agreement, promised that the bearer would be brought home safely.
Ivanov picked up a pen and some paper and tried to write a letter home to his father. He simply wrote all of it, poured out everything that had happened to him in Spain. Everything. Word after word, sentence after sentence, he filled the pages until he was out of paper to write on. Putting down the pen he read what he had written. It was worthless, unusable, horrible. Not because of a lack of quality but because of an abundance of honesty. There it was, the truth about his first encounter with war. He couldn't send this to his father. He tore it apart and threw the shreds out the window.
“Captain, when will...”
“The way things are looking, we'll be on the road for oh a couple of days. Maybe it's time we dropped the titles. My name's Enrique.”
“Sergej, but I'm called Seryozha.”
“Seryozha it is.”
The road was filled with people. People shouting, eating, waiting. A mother was scolding her son for some careless act. Two men were arguing about what to remove from their overloaded cart. A woman feeding a horse. Despite their individuality they all shared one goal; Barcelona, and one feeling; anxiety. The road was blocked some place to the north and now the entire column of refugees was standing still. Ivanov and de Jovellanos were also standing still, despite the fact that they were supposed to be going southwards. They had been stopped by some loyalist soldiers who had put up a temporary roadblock, looking for something. Orders to be followed, as usual.
Ivanov yawned. The burst of adrenaline he had received during yesterday's barrage and the night's horrible discovery had gone and left him feeling spent. He tried to observe the refugees, partially in an attempt to gather some information, partially to keep his brain working. He failed on both counts, his thoughts drifted.
Just two weeks ago these people had been at home. They had worried about money, toothaches, lost pets, taxes, meddling relatives, that door that needs fixing and a thousand other things. War had boiled down to their worries to just a handful. Where am I going to sleep tonight? What are we going to eat? Will we make it? Ivanov was happy that at least he was under the protection of his uniform which, in an unspoken agreement, promised that the bearer would be brought home safely.
Ivanov picked up a pen and some paper and tried to write a letter home to his father. He simply wrote all of it, poured out everything that had happened to him in Spain. Everything. Word after word, sentence after sentence, he filled the pages until he was out of paper to write on. Putting down the pen he read what he had written. It was worthless, unusable, horrible. Not because of a lack of quality but because of an abundance of honesty. There it was, the truth about his first encounter with war. He couldn't send this to his father. He tore it apart and threw the shreds out the window.
“Captain, when will...”
“The way things are looking, we'll be on the road for oh a couple of days. Maybe it's time we dropped the titles. My name's Enrique.”
“Sergej, but I'm called Seryozha.”
“Seryozha it is.”
My AAR as a photo. Bless the Internet.
You know, it's summer. I apologise. The story has been really low-priority lately and that's not good. Just letting you know that it'll be some time until I update again due to being friggin busy. Go read Mettermarck's, ok? I knew you'd understand guy(s, I hope).