Somme Enchanted Evening by davistrell@aol.com
I
The soldier boy for his pay obeys, but the King's shilling is hardly renumeration enough for the wages of fear. The war had dragged on for nearly three years, and they were sending near-boys, fresh out of school, to fill the boots of their fallen comrades, knee deep in the trenches.
Private Mervyn Pittle, of the South Essex Fusiliers trembled as he heard the whoosh, the crumps of bombs exploding in the air. A blood crimson sky, first turned black, then was turned into brilliant green phosphorescence, as a Verey light falling targeted his platoon.
"Heads down, lads, keep clear of the snipers, a bullet in the head will send you back to Blighty, but in an envelope, your mum'll puts it on the mantle piece, next to the China pekes." said Sergeant Hardcastle. Looking after his lambs.
"That's only if you fall out an aeroplane, like those Royal Flying Corpses' buggers, Sergeant," said Tompkins, the corporal.
The prump-prumping of the guns, as if laughing at the jokes of the soldiers.
"Sir, it's been going on for five hours, won't it ever stop?"
"Don't sir me no sirs, me lad, Sergeant Hardcastle I'm called, to all and sundry, don't give me no airs. Oh, shite! The snipers got somebody. Fucking aitch and jay bleedin' Christ!"
"Sergeant! Over here, there's another wounded. Clear up the mess. Get him down, makes the place look a mess." Lieutenant Skidmore, a pompous prick if there ever was one. First tour. Been here four days.
"Pittle, over here, help, me. Oh, gawd, its Huw Johns. He's done for. Help me, lad."
The two men, helped their fallen comrade down, dragging the corpse, down the tunnel they called a trench, along the duckboard path, the walls seven foot high, bags of sand to stand on, poke your rifle out, for a shufti, over the parapet into the dark of everybody's hell; no-man's land. Where men turn into men, and the first thing they do is start crying.
Pittle started sobbing. Hardcastle, held him, to smother, so the others couldn't see the unseemly tears.
"Cooeee, soft there..," murmured Hardcastle, "Stop your blubber."
"The noise, it won't stop..."
Pittle was all of nineteen, a rugger scrum-forward, all-rounder in cricket, and in boxing too he had excelled; won a medal. But here, in the armageddon on the Somme, he bawled like a baby.
"Ssh, me lad, ssh."
George Hardcastle, was a soldier, and seen so many die. Seen young men in their prime cut down like chaff. His body huddled against the young private, who'd dropped his rifle, taken off his helmet, and hung to George Hardcastle's strong body, and wouldn't let go. One fuck before dying, George promised himself, as his erection clearly felt by the young man, who ground his hips into the man, as if he needed release, urgently.
"Sir, Pittle's been hit, I'll take him, to the medico, see if he'll fix him up!" Sergeant Hardcastle yelled to the officer.
"Oh, very well," said Lieutenant Skidmore, a blot on God's eyesight when it came to understanding men.
"Take him, take him, but get back here sharpish, we've got a putsch on, at four thirty hours. None of your sodding malingering."
"No, sir! Can't wait, to get me chance, to stick me foot up the Hun's arse!All the way to the knee...!"
The Sergeant pulled Pittle's arm, draped it over his broad shoulder, arm wrapped the other around the the soldiers' waist, walking wounded.Pittle wanting so much to be taken away from the noise.
He dragged Pittle away, though of course not really hurt, except maybe in the soul, but limp in his arms, the boy's face, trickled, wet with tears.
"C'mon lad, just a ways down Malborough Road, then we'll turn left by the Two Chimneys, we'll be there in a jiff, just hold on, lad. Pretend to limp some more, in case Skidmore's still looking..."
The boy's warmth, even the smell of his fear, was arousing to Hardcastle. He'd followed the lad's progress, when he first arrived, who was sprightly and healthily impertinent to authority, but always looked sad.
They'd shared a cigarette one night, as the Sergeant, cupped his hands around the burning ember, a bull's eye for snipers, as the boy hungrily sucked and inhaled on the cheap smoke. He returned the wetted end the boy's lips had left, and concealing its light took a hefty drag on the ciggie. Sucked in his cheeks, and pursed his lips out.
A blue-grey ghost, rushed out. The boy coughed.
"Couldn't do a single lap round the swimming baths now," said Pittle. As long as he can run two rugby field lengths, there and back, that's all that's required.
He'd spoken of home of hearth and cottage, that night. Of a cricket match, he'd rescued, as he bowled the other team out. A glorious day, the white flannels, grass stained buttocks, as he sailed through the air, to catch the tumbling cricket ball.He was hoisted on his team-mates shoulders and carried the silver cup. That day, with all my friends, he told Hardcastle, in the bath, all naked and joshing, shoving, splashing. What a day.
Hardcastle said goodnight, leaving a unlit cigarette on the youth's shoulders, tumbling down the front of the Private's tunic, and landed in the fold at the youth's crotch. That was only the first time, they'd talked together, whispering, the background noises of whizzbangs and bomb-bursts, would have anyway hidden their words from prying ears.
Hardcastle, had stood watch with Pittle. There'd been others, other soldiers, nocturnal conversations. But Hardcastle, was attracted to the lad, positively burned for him. The lad warmed to The Sergeants bluff manner, and threw in a strong measure of hero-worship. But he hadn't ever yet given Hardcastle THAT smile.
I can wait, thought George, just give the lad time.
The barrage was heavier now. The Artillery three miles back, threw bombs, filled with nails, anything metal, that after it popped, would tear out a man's entrails, and make the face pulp jelly.
But at least they were on our side, and the bombs burst over the enemy's lines. And the roaring, rumbling gunfire chucked up death way up high. The constant prump-prumping of the guns, just to blow holes in the barbed wire.It was meant to demoralise the Germans, but only managed to demoralise both sides.
"Hush, thee, now, Mervyn? We'll get you out of the noise for a while at least. There's an empty munitions pit, up yonder, just round the corner.We'll get you out of the noise for a bit."
The sergeant shoved the young soldier into the box, carved in the side of the trench's side. Should be filled with boxes of bullet-rounds, but recently the mail has been slow. But big enough barely to fit two men beteen the muddy walls and low ceiling. But enough.
He held the boy round the waist, unshackled the belt-buckle' clasp, un-doing the belt of the Private's trousers. Buttons pushed through eyeholes till the khaki fly was open. Loosened white underpants, showing a healthy bulge.
"Let's get at a look at the leg of yours. Might be gangrene."
"I'm not hit, sergeant, you know that!" But he made no resistance as the sergeant slipped the army britches down under the youth's bum.
"Yes, gangrene, just as I feared, "the sergeant said with a big smile, "have to suck it out...."
"Looks like you got gangrene too, sarge, and a worse case than me, need a bit of serious attention..," said the lad with the Lancashire lilt in his voice. He pulled out his long boyish penis out of his underclothing, the little hooded head, exposed as he pulled back his foreskin, rolling it back between his finger and thumb.Gorge reached to clasp it in his big hand, like as if he were testing the stick-grenades weight, had it good, balance? Had it got an explosive potential?
Mervyn looked up coyly, into the sergeants big, hazel eyes, as he watched the sergeant's reaction, to the boy's erection, and what the effect was, and would his strong sergeant would do anything about it.
For that moment, the guns at last were muted.While George grasped Mervyn by the privates, and Mervyn held the Sergeant, and jerked himself into George's closed palm.
II
The mud, of the french soil, never more to fill again with crops, as all the blood, had raised the acid content. Hardcastle knew about agriculture. The ways of the soil, and how to handle livestock, being brought up on Old Muir Farm, that his father had promised that would one day be his. Oh, for a thicket of trees, with their shade, a view of the valley, wide and deep, patches of olive green rye, pale young corn, fallow meadows, a jug of cider,a comrade to share it with, out under the hot summer's sun. He had known such a lad. Trevor Bacon, from university, on holiday, but helped on the farm and was paid for his labour and sweat. He always baled hay, with his shirt off, and George was encouraged to do the same. Hayforks, throwing chaff, as they filled the wagon, twice as fast of any of the others. Finishing first, and lay in the shade, the best of friends.
A flood of summer memories spilled through his mind. Hayricks, and Trevor, no older than this willing Private, who now trusted to his brawny hands. The young soldier had swallowed his fear. And bitten the bullet and was withdrawing George's cock from its lair.
He'd dragged Private Pittle into the cave for ammunition, a sandbagged hole called Calcutta, now only a rest-stop, of sorts, carved into the wall, four feet deep, and four feet high. Pittle's, hand wrenched into the drab-olive khaki uniform, the coarse wool, till he grabbed on, latched on to Hardcastle's forthcoming erection. Throbbing if not purring as the lad stroked. A girth of some size, Pittle quickly learned. Blood thick veins, and a torpedo of pink, looking for portholes, with its enquiring eye. Bronzed-leather in color and the slow movements of a Bengali python ready to strike.
"Let me get me webbing off, freshly blanco whited today." He took off the white wide belts that carried the pouches, rifle rounds mostly, and no letter from home. Soldiers ran past, but George's broad back, hid all from sight.
The boy waddled his bum backward into the corner, and raised up his knees, and pulled his feet back, the men were like two rag-dolls thrown in a drawer, with not enough room. Hardcastle knelt with his back, almost sticking out, but he let the young lad undo him, let his cock emerge, a thick-necked snake in the darkness. The lad, Private Pittle, surrended to the pulsing monster, doubling his lithe body in two, and into his mouth let the sergeant push the sergeant's cock in between his lips. He suckled and turned it, his tongue active, and tasted the oaty taste, of good old-fashioned British bull.
The sergeant unloosened his tunic, soon the lad, was licking his belly, the pubic hair, then back along the shaft, then in the mouth again, feeling the weight of his balls with his tongue.
The sergeant was like a samson, arms pressed against the walls, while his boy-delilah, did his best to make his sergeant, to let go the walls, preventing the palace cave in. Hardcastle's head was crooked at a right angle,like atlas, and his steel helmet bit into the hard soil of the roof. The Lee-Enfield rifles propped by the outside wall, crossed at bayonet blades,the triggers facing together. The safety catches off.
Up, the hill a horse whinnied. George lifted the white ladder from the wagon. Trevor, a strawberry neckerchief round his throat, apple cheeked, and a strong fine chest, with soft manly hair, peeking out, from the carelessly buttoned shirt. His hair the colour of old hay, George's hair, just a slide of black treacle on top, the sides closely cropped, prickly, behind those big ears. Trevor was summer help, at Old Muir farm, tossing sheaves into the wagon all day, but the day's work now done.
"I'll help you with that" and Trevor, a beam of a smile, assisted as they lay the ladder, on the tallest haystack. Trevor clambered up top, followed by George, a nose length away, looking back, but the others had gone. At the top, unseen from below, the hollowed out part, where two men could fit snugly. Their bodies baked by the sun, no townies were these.In the scratchy hollow of hay already turning to straw. An eagle would have been proud of this nest.
"I made this, today," said Trevor, "Pull your pants down, and you'll see what I made for you!"
He lay a wreath of daisies, a chain. locked at the stems, over, Georges shaft. It stood up like a Stonehenge, with a druid circle surrounding the base.The petals laid out on his ball-sac, rich and heavy, full with desire.
"Doesn't it look appropriate?" as Trevor took off his shirt, but mysteriously, the straw in his mouth stayed. He wiggled his bottom, as he slid his trousers down. Sat, and pulled them off, so naked, but for the loose shirt, the handkerchief, taken off slowly.
"It looks right pretty! Tha'll never believe it, but I got one too!", said George as he laid a buttercup chain, and draped it on Trev's pointing dick.
They fell and they wrestled, the flowers, flew apart, as they crushed their bodies to one another's. Lips pressed together till they turned white, each removing what was left of the other's clothing, hung over the rim of the straw-hollow, of the haystack.
To an observer, it would look as it the two were filled with pent up fury. George clung hard, his arm around Trevor's back, as if to pull him into himself, thrilled with excitement. Trevor in turn, gripped one of George's thighs between his knees. His hand rode freely along the side of George's body as if measuring him. Striking buttocks as familiarly done to horses. Then Trevor, grabbed hold of George's dick, ran its head over his belly. Off on a recce, through Trevor's body hair. George's arms rose from behind, and clamped on Trevor's buttocks, raised him up, and swallowed Trevor's university cock.
"No point, anymore of putting it off; now we've come this far there's no turning back." said Trevor and George rolled over so he was faced down. Trevor sawed through the crease of George's buttocks.
"You'll have to bend your knees, raise your arse, that's how its done."
George closed his eyes, as the farmhelp, came up, from behind. He surrended, as he was entered. Surrended to pleasure.
III
There was a silence in France, as George Hardcastle had that melting feeling, felt the youth quivering, the blind gush of white hot cock-saliva, and George jettisoned his spunk-load, and Mervyn Pittle, wiping the dripping sperm from his face said, "I'm ready now, Sergeant, let's go kill some Hun."
The private wriggled his trousers back up covering the glimpse of his perfect white behind. Rearranged his uniform, leaving no choice, but for George to do the same.
No fuck for me, thought George Hardcastle: but the next best thing. Twenty eight and a half. When we go over the top, if we survive, I'll do him next time, I swear that I will.
"Next time, tomorrow you can, you randy bugger." Pittle smiled as he read the sergeant's mind. But a promise made of sand. Well, mud anyway. George's cock, at half-mast, still wanting to salute young Mervyn.
"Go, on you, cheeky young monkey, get smartened up, and let's go back. No more skylarking; more's the pity."
He couldn't fail to notice the giant wetspot, that flooded the crotch of Private Pittle's trousers. Glad, that the boy had come too.
"Ay, I'll roger thee right royally when we get back." He put his arm round the lad's shoulders, while Pittle brought his hand to clasp Sergeant Hardcastle's fingertips. Two old soldiers, re-energised and ready for war.
That summer sun had softened into dusk. A white streak in the sky signalled sunset. In the hay stack, Trevor had entered, into George's rear, it had taken much time, and much spit, little polish. He let the summer's help, push in, felt a hugeness inside, filling a void within. Trevor knew what to do. Bareback riding, the oldest of sports. The tricky thing is to stay in, not flop out, to bury within, then start to ride.Start with a trot, the dick is in, the canter, the cock starts thrusting, then the gallop. But no hurry to rush down the last furlong, to get to the winning-post.
Much grunting, much milling and moaning. Then Trevor stopped quickly, while George was still galloping. And George wondered why. He felt a bubbling inside him his sphincter clamped hard as the lock-gate was opened, and a river ran in. He rubbed his cock faster, as Trevor withdrew the sticky penis, still drooling, and George, buckled, and then came too. Two tributaries joined. and formed an estuary, of milky white stickiness. They lay bathed in sweat, in each others arms. George held the weight that had just impaled him. Now knowing why Adam had succumbed to the serpent.
"Soft now, it is my turn, now, don't you think?" He whispered in Trevor's ear, licking his tounge round the curlicues of cartilage in the fleshy shell.
A crack of thunder broke, and they tore apart from each other.
"You filthy bastards!" A voice at the top, on the ladder. Farmer Hardcastle, George's father. They hurriedly climbed out grabbing the garments they'd earlier had so casually discarded.
"You are no son of mine!" They sheepishly dressed, and on the wagon-ride back, barely a word was spoken, save for these.
"I'll expect you to sign up tomorrow, and don't show yourself back here, till you've killed a few Huns."
That was three years ago. He never went back. Spent his leave with a sailor from Rotherhite, A cook from Great Spaulding, and last time, with a Bloomsbury type. Duncan Grant. Who painted George's portrait, in the modern style, austere, dry impasto, and an overlong endowment. Introduced him to the Bloomsbury crowd, that flooded him with ant-war proganda, and encounters of the usual kind.
He came back to war, a much satisfied man. But wore off quickly, as the Front stayed immobile. The Germans would charge, get cut down like flies, till the process was reversed, and more flies, more slaughter. Separated by just a bit more than a rugger-field. Barbwire the only protection. Between was a field muddied, brown with blood. Murky pools of stagnant water filling the craters, made by bombs ejaculating from mortars. Ferrets out for rabbits, but the ferrets were cheating. Useful for foxholes, waist deep in smelly water, and disgusting underfoot. Thank god, for Pittles, or Hardcastles would tumble.
He buttoned his trousers, found his cock was still hard. he looked at Private Pittle. Pittle gave him THAT look.
They climbed back in the hole, and George's cock, rubbed against the strawberry rosebud, as Pittle. pushed his hips, under and up.
The badger has caught a fox, and the first thing he does is to fuck it. The boys eyes widened with alarm as George entered him. But it was so good, as Big George got it in.
"That man! On a charge! Gross indecency. Its a courtmartial, both of you're for the highjump! Not being officers they'll shoot you! And no last fucking cigarette!" barked Lieutenant Skidmore, waving his baton, at the two soldiers, who emerged, and couldn't call for innocence, as hanging down round his knees were the trousers of George Hardcastle, and Private Mervyn Pittle's, his bum still exposed and George, with a cannon sticking out in front of him
"I hope they use a Howitzer when they shoot you.You're a fucking disgrace, you jumped up farmer!This is the ARMY, not a barnyard! You're in a position of trust.."
A grenade went off in the distance. Skidmore cowered. The others waited, till he stood up again, not so brave now.
"I have a thought, Sergeant. We need volunteers to scout over the top. You've both volunteered. I'm proud to call you comrades. We wont be meeting again. But if you send back a pigeon, with the enemies strength, and I'll read it, after roasting and eating the brave bird." He left perfunctorily, just as he arrived. The brown trousers a little browner now.
There was no choice, , but to prepare to go out into the Great Divide, that divided the two great armies, face to face with ech other both banging on the door, wanting to be let in. So Pittle and Hard castle, made sure their rifles were clean, and their bayonets were sharp. As they'd no choice, anyway,in the morning, they'd be dead with their brothers, as twenty thousand men tomorrow morning would rush, over the top of the trench toward twenty thousand guns.
Fully equipped, both with rifles, faces painted with bootblack and mud, they went over the top, emerged into the emptiness. Hardcastle went over first rolling on his side, using his hips, like a viper, to move forward, his rifle in front, freshly oiled, fully loaded.
Orange blossoms cracked the sky. Staccato lights. Fireflies with tails, thirty feet long lay in the sky. Private Pittle, behind, both crawling on their stomachs, toward the barbed wire.Amoeba crawling out of the primordial soup, onto the beach of evolution.
"Pretty good fireworks! Fuckin' bleedin' Guy Fawkes Day!" breathed Hardcastle through clenched teeth, moving on by his elbows, his helmet hard down on his eyes.He galnced only once back to see if Pittle was following. Pittle getting more of a view of George's arse than was erotic.He held his rifle-butt hard, and almost paddled his way into the encroaching mud.
"A show just for us, it appears like; nice of the Boche, to give us entertainment, it's like we didnt know where to find the bonfire," said Pittle, crawling forward, toward the bright lights. Wiggling like lizards, but unfortunately no undergrowth. They passed through the hole in the barbed wire, marked with red flags, the Hun idea of a joke. Easily seen, but no one fired, the snipers must be playing cards. A lull only, as in only a few minutes the sun, reborn, will start his slow parade as he starts to stir from his slumber.And the sun will see what humans at their best, can do to each other.
"Did you hear something? I thought a moan..."
"The place crawls with rats..."
"No, Sarge, it sounds human, and like...in pain."
In the horror of the mud, a few treetrunks, sharpened to jagged pencil points, scratched at the sky. Holes in the ground, and the remnants of a ruined farmhouse, just a bit of a wall, that's all. But a whimpering, a frightened whimpering from behind the only cover for miles around.
IV
Last leave, Hardcastle had gone to London. Still in his uniform, a soft flat cap instead of the helmet. No weapons, just a soldier on the town. He wandered along the streets. Union Jacks at every window.
Window boxes dressed with flowers: geraniums, lobelia, alyssum, all patriotic colours; red, white, and blue.
But the people were huddled, cold, though it was a warm evening. He'd heard there were shortages of food, and of tobacco.
He carried five packets of cigarettes, courtesy His Majesty's kind nature. Useful for the encounters he sought. Thought he'd found a 'goer' down the Embankment. A young man leaning on the side gazing on the river at his reflection. Wonder how he's not called up, looks healthy enough, and the right age. Got his backside on display even.
"Why are you cupping your hands, like that for? There's no wind."
"Sorry, force of habit," said George with a faint smile.
But there wasn't THAT sign. Not that recognition, that this Sergeant needs desperately, he has only got a four day pass, this was the second day, and so far; no takers.
He wandered down to Leicester Square, past Piccadilly. Leaving Eros' statue, stuck on his pedestal, aimlessly pointing to heaven.
There were only few people out. Oh, Well, he thought. There's a Billy Bathtub comedy on at the Odeon, so he decided to spend a shilling, have a laugh, have a giggle, and hopefully cheer up.
The girl at the coinbox, with her polka dot dress and red lipstick, and stacked bun at the back of her head,much like a BillyBathtub bomb, with an unlit fuse, tore in half his ticket, and looked peeved, as he'd ignored her.That's the trouble with soldiers, she thought, they're too morbid. Now the RAF fliers know what this girl wants.
George sat near the back, sat toward the middle of the row of seats. Good view of the screen, not too many out tonight.
Billy Bathtub, the famous comedy star,with his walrus mustched and black-cicled eyes, that made it look as if he were permanently stuck in a wall-eyed stare, took custard pies and tossed them, threw them at the vicar, the butler and the pantry maid, up the backside of Police Constable Polightly, who accidentally threw his bike in the river, and waved a fist at the disappearing Billy. who didn't get even a dollop on him anywhere. Such a funny way of walking. Must have a carrot up his arse, the way his bum wiggled but it was so funny, as he walked into the sunset, to cause another disaster. The piano player was good, when he tinkled on the keys.
In the darkness, the only light, the smokey flashlight, that spilled the tantalising images on the screen. A man came, sat next to him. A little man, balding, the spectacles on his nose looked they'd slip down the slope. A timorous man. George offered and accepted by the bank-clerk, as had been George's assessment of his status, he lit the cigarette, and cupped the red end in his hands.
"I don't really smoke, " said the timid man,"It tastes strong, if you don't mind. Can I save it for later." He put in his breast pocket, between the folds of the handkerchief popping out.
"Do as you please," said Hardcastle.
The reel changed. A news supplement, it appeared. Lots of jerky men, pulling donkey-led wagons, along broken countryside, and everywhere there was mud. The timid man, slipped his timid hand on George's thigh, and George slumped back in his seat, and opened his knees.
"You're one of those brave lads, aren't you. I bet you've seen action. I can recognise that look in your eyes, said the stranger, whose fingers went up the inside seam of Georges trousers, with a spidery waltz.
The timid man ran his hand further up, into the thick folds. He twisted in his seat, using his right hand but still looking at the screen as he fumbled.
HEAVY LOSSES read the title, of these shadows of the real thing.
No startling vistas, men without their own faces, all called Tommy Atkins, all dressed the same. The uniform, coloured appropriately for chameleons in mud. Jesus, can't you find it, its not it's not THAT small! Big at least, enough to be found.But you don't order civilians around, not in a dark theatre, with no one else nearby.
The timid man had entered his fly, and a held George's flesh that though soft to the touch, but with a hardened iron bar running up its centre. Like a mouse who's found big cheese, but is afraid of the Cheese as its to big to drag back to the mousehole.
I've done it with men his age before, if it's all I can get.
He's getting better, less nervous now, it's feeling better, as he feels the banker begin to stroke up and down the Hardcastle dick.
Another title gives the figures for the dead. George knows it's a lie, the number is so long, it wouldn't fit on the screen. With his left hand the timid man, pulls on the Sergeants sleeve, indicating he wants to be fondled too.
George's hand found the man's attempt at a penis, his hand almost burying it, the timid man made mouse-like thrusts with his hips, as George's hand stays in a motionless fist.
Grey skies, on the sheet six feet wide. Glowing in the dark, as plumes of occasional puffs of cigarette smoke intertwine like ghosts overhead. Again the marching lines, and now the trenches, and the first body. Face down, his back, the tunic torn, but no-one would ever sleep like that.
"I have to leave," George said. "I can't watch, go find yourself a sailor, maybe tonight's the night your ship will come in."
And he left, and saw at the same time, two infantry men also leaving, a little worse for beer, but he'd seen too many soldiers. Look for obliging civvy, a healthy looking one, one he could grasp in his arms, and make him feel like a man.
He went out, back into Leicester Square, night had fallen, and there was nothing for it, but the usual last resort. He went down the flight of red-clay steps, past the shiny-white tiled walls, the overwrought wrought iron railings, a Victorian excess, in which to find relief. The Roman lettering, emblazoned "GENTLEMEN', but there'll be no gentlemen down there tonight. The sound of drip-dripping of the lavatorial piping, tarnished brass.Wooden closets paned with glass: all open-doored, but all empty. And George went in, past th eposter of General Kitchener saying I Want You, and someone had scrawled, and I Want You Too, Ducky, and both ends of the moustache someone had drawn an ejaculating penis, and the chin had been turned into a Bum. The silent men at the wall urinal, stayed silent, at George's approach.
V
At the foot of the stairs the dark-grey stain of the concrete floor, damp, as if it were always sodden with water. Across he saw a line of five men, all backs facing out, heads drooped down, hands attending, concealed from view. Looks like a firing squad's victims. A curly headed man, slight of frame, and a middle aged school teacher, turned their heads, looking admiringly at the sergeant, as he marched between them, one moved aside, and he took his cock out and let loose a stream of urine, splash on the vinegar coloured urinal. The bookends, his companions, turned, so he could examine their goods, and looked enviously at Hardcastle's manly girth. He shook his excess, and piled his prick back in his pants, and turned to leave.
The two men closed ranks, went back to standing together.
George looked in the mirror, straightened his hair, with a hand-lick, put on his cap, and mounted the stairs.
Too claustrophobic, too much like a trench dugout. As he went up, A young man came down, passing him, then pausing, and inclined his head to George, and indicated that George should reconsider leaving.
He HAD that look, and George, turned and followed.
The men expecting a firing squad all looked around. The young stranger, took George's hand, pulled it, leading him toward the wooden confessionals. George pulled out a brown penny, and put in the slot, turned the handle, while the young man stepped inside, followed by George, and the cubicle-sign clicked shut and read ENGAGED.
The youth took off a college scarf, and the yachting jacket. He hung them on the peg. His shirt was only closed at the centre button, his sleeves, unfastened, hanging loose on arms, down at his side. His arms, done much rowing, he had an athletic build, but the face of an artist.George felt like growling withg glee.
No reason for this lad is not to be in the army. Maybe he's a conchie. Some they shoot, some they hang, depends who your father is.
If he had a platoon, of this kind of man, the Kaiser, would run like a rabbit.The youthly body with the lines of his shapes, the Sergeant had a contour map of an unholy country.
George his tunic undone, the undershirt, put his hands between the young mans arms, his palms round the waist, slipping round the back, spreading on the boy's buttocks. He gave the youth a squeeze. In the door the opaque glass, a murky view from outside, only moving shapes danced on the cubicle's frosted panes.
George reached his hand round to the youth's front, found there was a cock ready for disarming, that was a schoolboy's no longer.
The lad had pale-lime colored eyes, a nose that was firm, and his close cropped hair, with a flop of brown, that they'd cut off, in the army's barbershop. Be a pity, but you'd sweat in your helmet, blind your eyes with nightly sweat otherwise. Such a warm humid body, hard in front, soft round the back. And a firm young cock, propping up, between those warm young thighs.
The lad moved George's hand away, replaced the Sergeant's hands, back to his bum, and moved an inch or too upward, and kissed the Sergeant teasingly, using the tip of his tongue to draw a rainbow on the Sergeant's lips. An open mouthed kiss, where tongues were exchanged, with eyes scrunched, tight shut.
The young man toyed with George's South Essex regimental belt-buckle, unfastening it. The brown haired lad, the shirt off one shoulder, sat on the china throne with its walnut coronet. He tugged the wooden handle pulling the chain, till the noise of the gurgling, hid the sound of the boy's hungry lips. The water flush must be tickling his arse, thought George, as he held the boys head gliding in and out and in.
George's military cock was in civilian mouth. Finally.
"Let's get out of here. Let's find us a place. Do you know somewhere? Where are you staying?"
"At the Portland hotel, with my mother, we can't go there," said the lad, with his hands, up George's shirt tempting both nipples, and tounging the wiry black curls on the sergeant's breast
"She's a suffaragette, but not so liberal, to approve of shenanigans. And I've no money neither. Got a quid, but it's got to last me till I go back to University, when summer's over."
"Nay, lad, we'll not you're money. I got baksheesh enough, well at least for tonight."
Spoils of war cheaply won. Ten quid, he sent five back to mother. Father will probably return it to France, like he'd done the last one.
"We'll find a cheap boarding house. Let's get the fuck out of this boghouse, I feel the walls closing in."
The Sergeant opened the door, The lad first, stuffing his joy down the front of his pants. Sergeant pulled him to him, like a comrade, and didn't look once at the stares, of the remaining men, who seemed eternally deprived to know pleasure..
Up the stairs almost leaping, three at a time. They emerged into a clear evening, even the stars had come out. No Zeppelins, either.
The one that they found was on an off street, near Bakerloo, a Georgian house, on Myrtle Street. Twin pillars with 27 painted on, the black railings by the steps leading to the basement, a curtain flapped quickly open, as they pulled on the doorbell. There was a sign in the front announcing VACANCIES, and the door was opened by a elderly plump woman, with slippers, pinny, and her tied in a bomb at the back.
"We need a room, for the night; troopship's leaving in first thing, tomorrow morning, we need a bed for the night. How much will it be?"
She looked suspiciously at the lad, dressed in what passed for University clothes. She let then come in to the hallway. Green pointed aspidistras, sticking out of brass urns, and a wallpaper, covered in creeping foliage, and a black checkered floor.
"Oh, him? He's my batman. Say hello, Marmaduke. Mrs?...."
The boy put out his hand to the landlady's. They shook, but not firmly.
"So you want two rooms,but that'll not be a problem, got number 3, and 19 free at the moment. You can take your pick. Name's Renwick, but please call me Myrna, I can see we will all be great friends."
"I'm afraid a Sergeant's pay won't extend two rooms, bit skint if you know what I mean." said George, as he took out his leather wallet, slim, and worse for wear.
"Oh, no, me dearies, as your'e in the Forces, I'll give you half off! So you can have two rooms, as it were, for the price of one."
She looked a little triumphant, at this.
"No, no trouble, we'll bunk up together, used to it in the trenches, save you all that laundry, and hospital-cornering the bed. Number nineteen free, that'll be at the top, won't it?"
"Oh, well I suppose, but you don't look none sleepy, you can use my front room, I'll put on a pot of tea. We can have a nice little gossip about the war." She turned to go, but George stopped her.
"Sorry missus, I really need, to lie down. My feet y' know, I got foot problems from the trenches."
She turned a nostril in a slight distasteful disgust.
"Not on my sheets, you don't sergeant, don't want you bringing soldier's diseases in MY house!"
"No, its not trench-foot. I had my baby-toe shot off, and my feet just hurt."
"Well, I don't suppose you'll be going out, so I wont give you a key, Seven and sixpence! If you please!" Three half crowns nestling in her plump hand, she led them to the stairs. "Me pillows are soft, and me mattresses is soft. You'll both sleep like bairns.We haven't had the Zepplins come, why it must be a while. I'll show you the way."
"No worry, missus we'll find it. Number nineteen you say." The men mounted the thick carpeted stairs, but every step creaked, as they ascended. The land-lady looked up, at them, the two men, acting a little too familiar, they disappeared as they reached the first floor, and made their way up to the third landing.
"What did you call me Marmaduke for?" The lad, released the nervous tension, with a stifled giggle, as they closed the door behind, In the single bedded room.
"Sorry, it just popped into my head. What do they call you, anyroad?"
"Frank. Frank Horner, from Coventry. Not bad this place. If you don't mind I'd like to use the sink. Bet the lavvy's down the bottom. Oh, look there's a chamber pot under the bed.How quaint." He seemed to be at home already. Not a hint of nervousness, and nicely brash.
George flopped on the bed, sagged in the middle, started to untie the leggings and pulled off his brown boots.
"Is it true what you said about a toe missing?"
"No, I just lied, it was all I could think of. Just imagine if you were down in number three, and all those creaking stairs!"
He pulled off his thick socks, laid them on the chairback, the only chair. Frank was stripped to the waist, rubbing a wet flannel, over his torso, under his armpits. A soldier's shower.
"Don't scrub too hard, I like a man's smell."
Frank came over stood by the bed, and draping his arms on George's shoulders, gave him a warm kiss. Falling back on the bad, as the lad lay on him. They were quiet for a minute, listening to each other's throbbing heartbeat. George pushed his thumbs on the lads waist band, down so the twin mounds of his buttocks were exposed, creamy white and felt the dark crease at their centre.The complete opposite of no-man's land. Tonight George would stake a claim.
"We'd better put out the light, there's a moon out tonight, there'll be plenty enough light to see." and Frank made a healthy bounce off the bed, a sailing hand flipped the light switch, and the moon-light spilled through the parted curtains, that they hadn't bothered to close.
"You look quite blue and mysterious," said young Frank, as he joined him on the bed, now quite naked, as nature intended.
He pulled up George' under-shirt, over his arms, and raised the vest over his arms. George let him, raised his arms, as the young man undressed him.
"Whew! A bit strong, let me wipe you down with the flannel," and as George hitched his britches down Frank grabbed from the sink, a thin sliver of soap. He rubbed the small handkerchief-size towel, over the Sergeant's chest, down his muscled abdomen, and polished George's cock, as if it were a precious candle stick.
"Hey...don't make me spunk off, I want this to last, for a while. Haven't been treated like this since I got that nick in me leg, and spent a night in a field-hospital."
"With a red-cross nightingale?"
"No, a lad from Shropshire, a stretcher bearer, with thick pink hands. Brought me off in the night; best cure for shrapnel."
The flannel unfolded, draped like a magic carpet, sodden, cold and wet, ran over George's body, till Frank thought he was done. He went back to the sink strangled the excess water, and returned with the now only slightly dampened cloth.
"Time to dry, don't want a lusty chap like you coming down with a cold. Look how your chest hairs, glisten, you're so shiny, must get you dry." And the cloth, made its journey leaving no stone unturned.
Frank folded it, lay it on the sink rim neatly, and climbed back on the bed. Above an embroidery in a wooden frame announced 'GOD GRANT THEE REST.'
"Lets go under the covers," said Frank, slipping in between the paisley sheets, "there's nothing like freshly starched cotton on my body, come on, get in. We only have all night..." he teasingly said as Sergeant Hardcastle clambered in beside him. His cock, lying on Frank's thigh. Frank lifted his leg over, so George's python nestled, between his balls and bumhole, draping his arm over, and snuggled in the bigger man's armpit. George kissed him on the brown flop of hair, ran his fingers through it, the fine strands almost silky.
"Where shall we start?" asked the lad, turning on his back, so George could see all the torso, and ran his brawny hand, pausing at the lad's nipples, stroking them with a thumb-tip, moving down onto the ribcage, feeling the bones, then the flat abdomen, the change of terrain on the belly, till he reached nest of prickly thatch, and encircled his hand round the youth's hardness, filled with blood, hot in his hand.
"We'll start at the beginning and won't stop till the end, and after a drifting sleep, I'll wake you at the dawn and go from beginning to end once again."
Frank chuckled, but George whispered 'shush'; that land-lady might have ears of a hawk, and eyes like a weasel. First rule of poaching is make no sound, bag your capture, and don't let it escape.
He got on top, let the lad take the weight of his body, like a rower, he rowed his cock over the lad's crotch and belly as if sawing a log. The bed squeaked-squeaked the bed-springs.
"Did you bring anything? I mean to help me, when you fuck me, I mean." "What's he talking about?" thought Hardcastle.
"What a condom? No, I gave my ration to the lads."
"No, I mean grease. You don't have, obviously. We'll use the soap. That little carbolic bar. Get it for me, be a good chap. Wet, it first, we'll need a good lather."
"Can't I suck you off first? I don't want to put me tongue up yer bum and taste all that soap."
"Alright, but you'll have to use it later, you're way too big without a little anointment."
"Very well, Frank, I'm good at obeying orders, even from a civvy, if the orders make sense. Let the cock sucking begin and the arse licking afterwards, then the soap, and I'll parade up your salient..."
He put his thumbs on the lad's buttocks, pressing them outwards.
Frank turned onto his front, on his knees sinnken into the soft mattress, hugging two dressy pillows, with his bum in the air.
Its look like he's crawling through no-man's Land, thought the Sergeant, but normally the bum doesn't stick up so...
Someone might shoot it. Waste of a good arse.
"Oh, my godfathers, your tongue's as big as your prick... but that's good,...oh my lord..."
VI
They'd climbed over the trench parapet, and had crawled a hundred yards from home. The night-sky was less noisy, uncommonly quiet. Hardcastle and Pittle, with express orders to find out the German's numbers and if possible the Kaiser's signature on an Armistice..
More than four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie out here, but George was only guessing.
George knew the way, but had never been quite this close to the crumbling farm, that was reduced to rubble, only a portion of wall left standing. The two soldiers approached cautiously, on their bellies, toward the whimpering sound.
"Allus a calm before the storm, it's just a lull. The guns are taking a tea-break. Where did that moan come from?"
"Over there." And Pittle wiggled ahead, the tortoise passing the other tortoise, both looking for hare.
The private pointed toward the wall, the moon reflecting in the stagnant rain pools. A big moon tonight.
"He sounds hurt, he sounds in pain."
The two men, Hardcastle, led by Private Pittle, shuffled through the mud on their elbows and knees.
"You be careful, son. He might be faking. Put your bayonet on.
But don't stick him, in case he's one of ours."
"He's just a kid, sarge. He's trembling."
"A german, a corporal, still the color of his mother's milk.."
"I think he's in shock sergeant, look how he's trembling..."
VII
A bluebottle crawled on the wallpaper. They lay wrapped around each other. George and Frank Horner. George's cock tired and sleepy. Frank's bottom still tingly. Under the covers, now, the night a little cold. "Bet I could shoot that bluebottle with my Webley." said George making a gun out of his fingers, training the thumbsight right between the insects eyes. Frank rolled over the sergeant rubbing his thigh on the sergeant's cock. Trying to make George hard again with his hand.
The door burst open, The Policeman, pointed with his truncheon.
"What's going on here, then? Get out of that bed! You're on a fizzer, mate! Military court in the morning, Police court tommorrow afternoon, and he'll put on the pink cap on his wig, and send you to Wormwood Scrubs, with all the others. They'll shoot you or hang you, mebbe both!" His voice was a bark.
As they crawled out the bed, tried to hide the nakedness from Mrs Biddle's eye, hiding behind the constable.
"C'mon get dressed sharpish, and you boy, you'll be sent down from University even before you go up. C'mon lets be having you, jidi-jildi, get yer khaks on. You're nicked, mate.And dont make me use this truncheon!"
Mrs Biddle's eye positively gleamed with triumph.
"Disgusting I calls it, me that has to clean up the sheets, and I dont really know, But thats the Reverend Castor's favourite room, when the choirboy outing, comes in tommorrow, whatever will I do. Lock 'em up, and throw away the key, that's what I say!"
And the quartet descended the three flight of the stairs, barely dressed, well two of them.
"Thankyou Missus Biddle, I'll get the judge to throw the book at them, and the key into the Thames. Goodnight, Missus. Glad to be of service, lucky i was passin' as you ran out."
"What about handcuffs, I'd like to see them handcuffed."
"Righto, missus, good idea. You, pretty boy, backside front and hands rest on the base of the spine. I arrest you in the name of His Majesty. Turn around lad."
Frank ran off, down by the gas lamp, into an alley, and we heard him run away. The sound of running footsteps faded.
"Don't worry, I got the big 'un. He's the one we really need. I'll personally supervise the thrashing."
"Well you got that one, at least. Make sure you don't lose him. A sergeant with a 'batman', he must think I'm stupid. Well goodnight, dearie..." And she left returned inside, and the flap of the curtain raised again. And one stabbing eye of disapproval.
"C'mon, we have to walk, down here, any funny business and you'll feel me truncheon."He said it loud, who's Chesire Cat smile, grew then vanished.
About twenty yards down the road, they stopped, and the constable, unlocked the handcuffs.
"Sorry about that mate, but the old lady, you know, we have to appear to do our duty. Sorry, if I scared you. I Waited outside, till you'd finished applying the tourniquet on yer prick. Much to Mrs Biddle's annoyance," he added, laughing.
"Have a cigarette," said George much relieved.
He lit both cigarettes, in his mouth, and passed it to the one-armed policeman.
"Good night, lad. Try to ignore the Boche, tricky buggers,and never trust an officer, when you get back."
"Goodnight, mate. Enjoy your ciggie."
"If me sergeant don't catch me..."
With his one good arm he waved, as George turned the corner.
VIII
Laid flat out on his back they found a German, a corporal, and by his looks no more than seventeen years old. But looks are in the beholder, even the Germans must have a cut-off date for their young lions. No kid, but not quite a man.
He seemed to be shivering, as if gripped by fever.
"Christ almighty, he's only a grasshopper," the sergeant said, removing his bayonet and replacing it in the sheath.
Pittle knelt down by the teeth-chattering boy. Soothing with his hand on the boys forehead, furrowed with a nightmare.
"Poor bastard's shell-shocked."
Pittle pulled the German, to his body. To give the German warmth. Held him like a brother. Well, George thought, they're not so different, Pittle and the corporal. If there wasn't a war, they'd be like schoolkids, wrestling and fighting, growing up into men.
The corporal said something in German. But neither one of them could understand the language. Save the ones that are all men's and doesn't need words.
"Here, give him my canteen, I put some rum in the water."
Pittle poured the liquid on the corporal's lips. He drank a little. No helmet, somewhere lost in the mud. He huddled into Mervyn.
Guess, I'll leave them to it, thought Sergeant Hardcastle, I'm not needed here. I've still my soldier's duty to perform. All this for a shiny piece of metal, a ribbon. And a rosette wreath on my grave.
He resumed his belly-crawl toward the enemy lines. He called back:
"Find out what's his troop, the name of his divisional commander. I'll be back in three minutes, if I'm not get your backside back to our lines. Don't wait for me. That's an order!"
In the bleakness, through the murk of mud, Hardcastle made progress toward the German line. Over the top, grab a German, by the throat, whisk him up, knock him senseless, drag him back, the full two rugby field lengths back, pick up Pittle, collect the prisoner, back to our side, and watch the disappointment in Lieutenant arsehole Skidmore's face. That's a plan, George thought. It's the only plan I've got.
Closer, closer, he could hear the sound of German laughter. Timing's right, they know what'll happen shortly, Officers will have drowned the last bottle of cognac, and the troops got their schnapps, to dull the fear. They won't be expecting me. I'll catch one them by surprise.All we need is one prisoner.
"Hande Hoch!" barked a voice, from behind; George froze,and raised his hands.
"What's your troop, the name of your divisional commander?"
Excellent english, but you couldn't miss the accent.
"Yes, place your rifle down, and keep the hands up." said the teutonic voice behind him. An accent, but educated.
"I will relieve you of your bayonet, Englisch.I will not hesitate to shoot you. Be still."
He felt a man approach behind, his hand undid the bayonet sheath and he coldly pulled it out. He felt the man, brush behind him, hard but not as hard as a hand.
The voice moved a step or so back.
"You have a fine weapon, good balance, good weight. Turn around Englisch, keep your hands raised, don't make a sudden movement."
Hardcastle turned around slowly, to face his captor. An officer, no less. Arrogant Prussian, all that was missing was sword-scar. All of six foot three, his gray uniform spattered and splashed with mud, but still elegant. Tailored trousers, and thick boots. But no helmet, just like the little corporal, and on his head a gashed wound, smeared blood. He lost his footing but swiftly regained his erect composure.
"Sit down English, cross-legged, like an Indian maharajah, and your hands, you would be so kind, to place them behind your head. I need to search you."
Glad to be seated, making less of as silhouette against the blood streak of dawn rising, George did as he was told. But it wasn't safe, out here, exposed, to falling Verey lights starflares bursting in the air, searching in the darkness with their murderous eyes
The blond officer, reached for George's breast pockets, searching.
"I didn't bring me paybook, If that's what your looking for, no letters home, with our side's numbers and strength."
"Very wise, Englisch sergeant, but you don't think I'm a fool if I search. Ah, but I see you speak truthfully. A fault with sergeants."
Hardcastle felt a tingle of regret, as the hand moved away, wishing he had something the officer would want to search for. So this is how it ends, I get taken to a prisoner-of-war camp, and fritter away the rest of the war. He felt ashamed.
He would wrench the German's pistol away, and strangle the enemy with his lanyard, tied to the revolver, a noose round his neck. If I get THAT chance.
He looked the German up and down to take the German's measure.
Haughty, an officer, not a big build like Hardcastle's, an aristocrat; fine featured, his nose with a slight pinch, but his eyes a touch of darkness. His forehead high, hair long but combed back in military fashion. His long slender fingers the kind that would delicately balance a cigarette holder. No nicotine stains on their tips. The muscles at the side of his mouth were slack, giving him a tired pout.
Wearing soldier's jodhpurs, close-fitting below the knees, he must be a cavalry officer, he'd be seen to advantage on a horse, but horses not needed round here much, maybe except for food.
The sharp angle of his jaw displayed an occasional troubled tremor. He didn't belong in a muddy blasphemous field any more than did Sergeant Hardcastle.
When they enlisted Hardcastle, they got their money's worth. His chest was like a bull mastiff's. Thick strong legs, for marching, and and air with the men, made him popular, they'd do what he wanted, so he made platoon leader. He had come back from each leave; unafraid of the hell he'd have to face, and with no quibbles; it was if he'd returned to the Front, as if he'd been given new lease on life.
Cheery amongst the men, except an over-fondness for weaklings, as it was so written in Lieutenant Skidmore's report.
"I see you admire my Mauser. Never fear, it is loaded."
George Hardcastle could see his man was thinking. What to do with George. Shoot him, or try to get his prisoner home, to his own lines, only fifty yards away. Why is he taking so long, to make up his mind?
Then suddenly, his hand reached forward to George's pocket again, and withdrew two cigarettes.And the three matches.
"And why not, Englisch? A last one, between two enemies."
He put two cigarettes in his mouth, and George automatically cupped his hands round the flame. As he passed on the cigarette, to the sergeant, cupped a hand to the burning embers. This is my chance, thought George. When he takes the next drag, and passes it back to me.
The officer sounded weary as he inhaled the smoke, and then stubbed it out without passing it back to George.
"No point in flirting with the snipers."
He's ready to take me over, I wonder if alive or dead?
They were like two ants, both aware that the farmer, was about to use his plough and overturn the anthill.
"What is that sound?" The German officer turned his head, sharply; his attention diverted.
My chance again, I could have had him, he was distracted, but I've muffed it, thought Hardcastle.
"It's a moaning. An urgent moaning, is he hurt? No not that, " and he broke into a laugh, as he recognised the sound. "Some one is being fucked, out here, in no-mans land! God, himself must be distressed, as man shows his mettle, ach, it is as if they know they are poised on the lip of the abyss..it is priceless..."
George, looked up, at his adversary, in a low tone confessed.
"It's one of my lads, with one of yours, a young corporal, we found him almost dead from fear.."
"Korporal? Ah, Hanz Friedlich, my batman, we were separated. Where are they?"
"There's a bit of a corner left of a farmwall, its hidden from our sides. "George indicated with his elbows.
"What do you say, Englisch, we join them. I will have saved my comrade, brought in two prisoners, placed a deposit on my posthumous Iron Cross. Lets go collect them. And natŸrlich, no unnecessary movements."
He waved the pistol, to indicate Hardcastle should start the trek to the wall, and George wriggle on his belly, made more difficult with his hands still clamped to the back of his neck.
Wormlike, crawling through the soft as sausage soil. They reached the wall, and discovered Pittle giving the coup de grace to, the upturned corporal, biting his tunic sleeve, as Pittle thrusting rapidly, his Private's cock, inserted, in the young enemy's buttocks, and Pittle was actually in the act of ejaculation, as the youth under him sobbed with an overwhelming emotion, and his hand pumped energetically his young German cock. As they heard the Men approach.
"Sarge! Who's that with you. Oh Cripes, a Kraut!"
"With a gun." George said shrugging his shoulders.
The youth swiveled over, as the British private was pulled away, by the German officer.
"Hanz, I thought I'd lost you, why did you run away..."
But the youth grabbed Pittle down in top of him clamped his knees to the thighs of Private Pittle and wrapped his arms round the waist, round the back, pulling him into him.But the Officer, down on one knee a look of consternation on his face. Was the corporal just frightened?
Can't believe this German, would abuse, the youth, thought George. He's acting tender. Then daylight entered.
Stupid bastard German, never got the balls to fuck the kid! No wonder the corporal ran away, thought Hardcastle. I can't disarm him now, God would never forgive me.
"They are boys. Emotional cripples. The war. You understand, sergeant. The death, the bombs, the noise..."
"And mostly the mud..." said George, and a sniper could have seen that grin.
A Verey light fell, like violet sunshine, and George, saw the German give him THAT smile.
"Get down, behind the wall. Over there, it seems drier, but no unnecessary movements, Englischer..remember...Englisch shwein" But his voice raised, at the end, and made it sound attractive.
Been called worse afore, as he remembered his fathers blistered words. Maybe all were true.I hope someone is brave enough to write them all down on me coffin.
The men found darkness and comfort, in the shadow of the wall.
The German soldier, crushed his back to the bricks, took a moment to gather his wits. The bloody gash on his forehead made a cobweb of one eye.
"If we were in Bavaria, you a guest at the Schloss, after introducing you to the Count, my father, he would approve of you, Englander, he would click his heels, and leave us. The day we would spend in a boar hunt. We'd carry the hog home. And in front of the fire, we lying naked, rolling on the rug, and I'd feel all over you,in front of the sparkling fire, we would devour the flesh of roasted pork, and I'd smear you with pig-grease... do I shock you Englander?"
George still his hands at his neck, still the pointing Mauser, watched as the officer, undid his belt, another opportunity lost, but the German, had pulled out his manhood.
"We call it Bockwurst, Bratwurst, you English so limited in vocabulary for how you say...cock?"
"Ay that's what we calls it. It's a right manly word..."
"I have a request, lowly sergeant, I have the gun, remember."
The two youths watched the men. Still entangled, but unsure who's cock was whose. Watched the sergeant, hands back of the neck, bend down and oblige the enemy officer. This gave Hanz, the courage of his conviction, and he to pleasured Pittle, by letting the Private, do what the men who doing, but sucking quickly in short, hard bursts, rather than the way George Hardcastle used his lips.
A slow slide down the shaft, and then rising, submerging again, then up for air.
"You may take your hands down, but any unnecessary movement, and I will be forced to shoot you. We'll meet again, tomorrow, undoubtedly, if there's a place in heaven, fit for soldiers."
In for a penny in for a pound, thought Hardcastle, as his jacket came off, his belt undone, the pants shoved down to his knees, the underpants, clean, as when they find you in the morning, your corpse would be ashamed to be found with dirty underwear. Hardcastle had a big cock, as the German found much to his delight, that was broad and almost as long as its thickness; a sausage should be named after this monster.
He lay the Mauser, on the ground. In for a pfennig in for a ...
The boys were slavering kisses on each other, Hanz' dick, furiously rubbed, making clear that young Mervyn Pittle should move into the maiden position, as young Franz was about give his first fuck. Mervyn used involuntary muscles, as the young Corporal, with a corporal's dick, to push in at Mervyn's exit, and take him with a rearward flanking action. Not as thick as Hardcastle, so fitted in neatly. I can live with this, thought Pittle, he's not so big, but it feels good inside, and better, as he's riding.
"My name is Gunther, as you have the impoliteness not to ask." What does your poet Siegfried Sassoon, say? 'these are the men that dead have ravished...'; such a strange name for an Englishman..."
George was busy, with German size cock. Gunther, pulled his hands on George's behind, kneading the muscles, wandering hands, between his legs, held George's balls, ran his palm, along George's shaft, ran a thumb pad, on the cock eye-hole.
"Turn around, sergeant, with your back toward me, sit down, and I will impale you. Look at the boys, ach!, they're aping us."
Hanz's penis in a trench, human, all the way to his hilt. Pittle enjoying every thrusting invasion, not like George's, this felt good, not as if he would burst.
Hanz said something that must have been a swear-word in German, and Pittle's bottom was warmed, and wetted inside, little gushes, as if some one had stuck a water pistol up his arse. Hanz gave him a hug, from behind.Both boys, stayed in the heads-down position, but watching intently what the Men were doing.
Sergeant an arm buttressed on the wall, Gunther cramped in the corner sitting, as George, sat too, but had to accept the entering member.
Never done it this way afore, thought George. Next leave, I'll try it, but it won't be me being the cushion in the German lap. I'll take the officer's position. God, he's in me, I can't take, it, it hurts a bit, I'm tight, got to try to widen; he's jerking on my dick, I can't concentrate. Jesus.
The boys watched George ride up and down, his knees bending, repetitively, like a physical instructor doing squats. They could see the German penis then disappear, and re-emerge again. The men, were making grunting noises, but only heard in a barnyard. Horses, mating but with pig noises. Two roosters ignoring the hens.
Hanz, seemed to be excited again, and they did their version, but it smacked more of a play-ground, than the grown-up corner of the battle field.
George jumped the German, turned him over, stuck his aching cock, in the officer's rear. And returned the favour. While Gunther forgot about the war.
The guns resumed their prump-prumping, and close at hand, the sailing whizzbangs, and the havoc of explosions, as they landed close to the German trench line. One exploded in a tree, and in a fireball explosion, heard the scream of a falling sniper.
The sky turned into a whirligig of falling clusters, red, orange and gold, dropped and died; thin lines of dung-grey smoke illuminated by explosions drifted into the sepulchral smoke. The enemy barrage joined in the din. Gossiping gunfire, chitter-chattered, a scream, another scream. The tallyman counting the accents.
A queer silence haunted the evening. Both sides under a white flag, to remove their dead. The British contingent reached the farm wall. Found four naked dead-men.
"Lay them all in the same grave, it looks as if that's what they would of wanted." This said by Lieutenant Skidmore, a born survivor, but a dawning had penetrated into his understanding of men.
FIN