So this is what you get by being a war veteran in this country. For four years I flew airplanes for the US Army air corps in the European Theater of World War II. I laid my life on the line time and time again and was even shot down once over the coast of France just prior to the D-Day invasion. Where am I now? What has my grateful country done with me? I sit in a shitty convalescent home, dying of emphysema and congestive heart failure, an oxygen canula permanently planted in my nose, my breath so short I can’t even get out of bed to go to the bathroom without assistance.
My days are numbered and I know it. One more common cold that quickly turns to bronchitis and pneumonia or one more urinary tract infection from the damn catheter they have stuck up my works will undoubtedly be the death of me. I’d be surprised to make it another month and I’ve gotten to the point where I almost look forward to the coming oblivion. I have little to do these days but lie in bed, concentrate on drawing my next breath since each one is an effort, and think of the long life I’ve lived. I look at the pictures on the walls around my side of the room. Pictures of my daughter, who visits me perhaps once a month. Pictures of my grandchildren, who never visit me at all. But the one that draws my attention the most is the picture, taken in 1943, of myself at twenty-four. I have all of my hair in that picture, my blue eyes are bright and full of fire. I’m wearing my flight-suit and standing next to a P-51 Mustang on an airfield in England. Pinned to the bottom of this picture is the Distinguished Flying Cross that I earned on June 6, 1944, perversely, for getting shot down behind enemy lines, which never struck me as very distinguished flying but that’s the government for you.
I remember that day well. Now and days I probably couldn’t name what particular day or month it is if you held a gun to my head. Often as not I can’t remember what I had for breakfast by lunchtime. Sometimes I even have to grapple for the name of my late wife or my daughter. But I remember June 6, 1944.
Just before dawn that day I strapped into my Mustang, which was loaded with two five hundred pound bombs and a full load of 20mm cannon shells. The P-51 was primarily a long-range, air to air fighter but lately, the Germans had had very few airplanes left for us to fight, so decimated was the Luftwaffe. The air wing that I was a part of had been pulled off of escort duty for heavy bombers and reassigned to bombing duties. My wingman and I roared into the sky from our airfield just outside of Southampton England and headed southeast across the English Channel towards the Normandy coast of France. I was bone-tired, a state I’d been in since the previous week. Though this was my first mission of the day, I’d flown four missions the previous day and was operating on less than five hours of sleep.
We were tasked to bomb and strafe the German defensive positions near the invasion beaches. Our current target was an array of heavy guns four miles inland from the beach that was code-named Omaha. Flying conditions were not the best. It was no longer raining, as it had been for the last three days, but it was windy and overcast, with a ceiling of only about four thousand feet. As the sky began to brighten with the rising of the sun, we could see the surface of the channel below us was dotted with whitecaps whipped up by the icy, northern wind.
As we approached the Normandy coast, flying just below the ceiling, we saw the armada of ships tasked for the invasion. It remains one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen. Ships of all shapes and sizes stretched from horizon to horizon, moving in on the coast. The battleships were out in front. As soon as the sun was fully up, I knew, they would begin pounding the coast with their guns in order to soften up the beaches for the landing craft that would follow. I made a mental note to be sure and climb high enough after coming off target. Running into one of those shells in flight would most definitely be counter-productive.
We roared over the line of ships and made landfall less than three minutes later. A few explosions of flak burst around us as we crossed the beaches and the low hills surrounding them. None of them were close enough to cause concern. It was just light enough to make out features on the ground. We found our navigational references after a bit of searching and turned to the northeast, paralleling the coastline about five miles inland. Occasional flak shells would streak into the sky and burst but the shots seemed perfunctory on the part of the German gunners, done more for forms sake than anything else.
Finally our target came into view. A sandbagged emplacement of fixed heavy artillery guns, part of Rommel’s defensive array of Normandy. The anti-aircraft fire picked up as we lined up and dove down on the guns, centering them in our sights, the flak bursting with increasing frequency and now punctuated by the red tracers of smaller caliber weapons. I dove through this, waiting for the proper release altitude, taking it on faith that none of the shells that sought me out had my name on them. None of them did. I released my bombs, feeling the double thump of their separation followed by the increased responsiveness of the Mustang as a thousand pounds of weight and drag were suddenly jettisoned from the aircraft.
I pulled up and banked hard to the left, looking over my shoulder just in time to see my two bombs explode harmlessly about fifty yards away from the target. My wingman’s bombs, though a little closer to the mark, didn’t do much better. He at least managed to knock over a few of the sandbags and maybe kill a kraut or two with flying shrapnel but the guns were obviously still in operation as he pulled out. A mission wasted, I thought, though it was not unusual to miss. These days they have laser-guided bombs that probably could have been placed right down the gun barrels themselves but we were forced to rely on eyesight and ballistics to place our ordinance on target; an imperfect science at best.
“Looks like we missed the fuckers, Mike,” I told my wingman as we leveled out and moved away from the anti-aircraft fire.
“Yep,” Mike, not the most verbal of people in the world agreed.
“Let’s circle around and hit ’em with the twenties,” I suggested. “Maybe we’ll blow up their shells and take ’em out that way. If nothin’ else, we can kill some of the gunners.”
“‘Kay,” was his reply.
We circled around and dove back down on the target. I lined it up in my gunsight and started firing. The tracers arced out of the wings, reaching towards the emplacement, seeking it out. I manipulated the stick and rudder, adjusting the fire, trying to place it right in the middle of the sandbags.
Suddenly the impossible happened. A string of tracers from the ground turned towards me and stretched a line across the nose of my plane. There was a series of loud popping noises and my propeller exploded, fragments of it slamming into the windshield in front of me. I immediately pulled up and banked to the right, clearing the area but the damage was done. My engine began to whine with the high-pitched sound of mechanical torment. Oily black smoke began pouring from the cowling, obscuring my vision. I was hit! The plane climbed for a moment as speed was converted to altitude but a stall was coming quickly.
“Mike, I’m hit!” I told my wingman as I turned the plane inland and leveled it the best I could. My altitude was dropping fast and I knew I had to get out as quick as possible.
“How bad?” Mike asked, trailing behind and above me.
“I gonna have to bail,” I told him. “And right quick. Mark my position.”
“You got it,” Mike told me
I looked below, trying to peer through the smoke pouring from the engine. I passed over a road and continued on, gliding now over a green pasture dotted with trees and a small stream. I could see horses and cows grazing unconcernedly underneath. These days they have rocket powered ejection seats that blast a pilot free of a crippled aircraft. We had no such things back in ’44. I released my harness and popped the canopy loose, hearing it slam into the aircraft’s tail as the slipstream tossed it behind me. My lungs were immediately filled with smoke from the engine; my eyes started to burn. I pulled myself up and pushed off with all of my strength, not wanting to suffer the fate of the canopy and collide with the tail, which would chop me in half if it hit me.
I sprung free of the airplane and my body was slammed backward by the rushing wind, spinning me over the tail with less than a foot to spare. Knowing I was less than two thousand feet above the ground, I pulled the ripcord immediately. It seemed an eternity but the parachute finally blossomed to life, jerking me to an abrupt, teeth jarring halt in mid-air. As I began floating gently to earth my plane continued onward, passing over a farmhouse and a large grazing field before smashing into a grove of trees and exploding.
I floated down over a field of cows, landing in squelchy mud and standing water with a thump. Above me, Mike circled once, dipping his wings to indicate that he’d marked my position, and then he roared off towards the coast, heading home.
I was now alone except for the cows, who continued to graze impassively. The Germans would be after me soon. And though the word was that they treated prisoners in accordance with the Geneva Convention, I had no desire to sit out the rest of the war in a POW camp in Germany. I stripped off my parachute and my helmet, tossing them to the ground. I picked up my survival pack and checked to see that my .45 was still strapped to me. I began moving towards a farmhouse and a barn in the distance. With any luck I could hide somewhere for awhile. If the forthcoming invasion were successful, the front line would pass over me, leaving me safely on the proper side.
In retrospect I realize that going for the farmhouse was not a very smart thing to do. If I’d been a German infantry soldier, and I’d spotted a parachute from a downed airman in a field, the first place I would have looked would have been the nearest farmhouse and barn. Luckily for me, the Germans would soon have other things going on to occupy their attention.
Halfway there a small figure rushed out of the farmhouse and began heading towards me. I could tell immediately that it was a female dressed in a long dress. Her hair was dark and her skin seemed pale but aside from that I could make out no details. I dropped my hand to the butt of my .45 as she approached, not knowing what to expect from her. This was my first trip behind enemy lines; the first time I’d logged a take-off without a corresponding landing.
When she finally reached me I saw that she was a young girl of about sixteen. Her face was smooth and unlined, very pretty. Her body was proportioned nicely with the curves and firmness of teenaged youth. Her blue dress was tattered and torn in places, obviously well worn. Her eyes however, a deep brown in color, had the thousand-yard stare of the career infantryman. This girl, I could see, had been through a lot.
She looked me up and down for a moment, appraising me. Finally she spoke. “Par-lay voo fron-say?” she asked hopefully.
I didn’t speak French but I did understand that particular phrase. “No,” I said, shaking my head.
She frowned. “Specken de doitch?” she asked next.
Again I shook my head. “English?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Great,” I muttered.
“Ameri-can?” she asked next, looking at my uniform.
“Oui,” I told her.
She smiled hopefully. “In-vay-she-on?”
I nodded. “Oui.”
She smiled widely, looking towards the heavens. “Mer-say!” she said gratefully, though she didn’t seem to be speaking to me.
When she turned her gaze towards me again it was full of concern. She shot off something in rapid-fire French, not a word of which I understood, but her tone was commanding. She beckoned me to follow her. She started off across the field, heading away from the farmhouse and the barn. I followed behind, wondering where she was taking me.
About two hundred yards beyond the farmhouse was a grove of trees. She led me into them, finally stopping next to a tall oak that had to be at least a hundred years old. Wooden steps had been nailed into the trunk of the massive tree. My eyes followed the steps upward, spying a wooden tree-fort about thirty feet up in the branches. She gestured for me to climb upward.
I looked at her, puzzled, not realizing yet that she was trying to hide me. Finally, in frustration, she muttered something in French that sounded suspiciously like profanity and started up herself. I watched her climb upward and found that as she ascended, I was able to look straight up her dress. She wore no underwear I quickly saw. Her legs were shapely in the manner of youth but her crotch was that of a woman, covered with coarse black hair. I knew I should look away, she was after all, just a girl, but I couldn’t force my eyes away from this alluring sight. I hadn’t had sex in more than a month, all of the stories of Americans and English girls boffing at every opportunity turning out to be mostly a myth. Despite the circumstances I felt myself stiffening a little as I imagined what was under all of that hair.
She reached the top and pulled herself onto the platform of the tree-fort. She peered down at me and spoke in French again, her tone impatient. She gestured that I should climb upward. I stared at her, wondering if it was wise to go up there when a sharp concussion from behind battered me. The tree shook under the force of it, the sound making me jump. It was followed immediately by others, both loud and faint, both jarring and not. The pre-invasion bombardment of the beaches had begun.
That decided me. As the tree rocked with the nearer of the concussions, I placed my hands and feet on the wooden steps and started pulling myself upward. A minute later I was sitting within the confines of the plywood walls, staring at my savior. She smiled nervously at me, saying something that I couldn’t understand and pointing out the small opening in the plywood.
I nodded my understanding, though I didn’t understand her.
“In-vay-she-on?” she asked, as the tree rocked with another concussion.
I nodded. “Invasion,” I confirmed, and then whispered softly to myself, “I hope it works.”
As the concussions of the bombardment continued to pick up, sometimes violently, we studied each other. I found myself attracted to my companion, as grown men tend to be to teen-aged girls. Forbidden fruit they are, deemed unacceptable companions for sexual congress in our society. That was what made them powerfully attractive. I suppose if our society had a taboo about screwing twenty-five year old fat women we would all be lusting after them. She spoke the occasional French or German phrase to me, most of which I didn’t understand. I tried to answer her in English, most of which she clearly didn’t understand.
“Your ma-ma?” I finally asked her. “And pa-pa?”
She shook her head sadly, drawing her fingers across her throat and saying, with hatred, “Doitch!”
So the Germans had killed her parents. I wondered why. Were they part of the French underground? Had they wandered into the wrong place? Or had they just been killed for fun? This last seemed the least likely. From what I’d heard the krauts were efficient, professional soldiers, not prone to wasting bullets on innocent farm owners for the fun of it. Was this girl on her own? Tending this farm by herself? She seemed to have things in order around here, what with the cows and horses grazing away while the bombing and fighting went on outside.
I tried to ask her name. I pointed to myself and said, “George. George Hackmeyer.”
She looked at me for a moment and smiled. “Marie,” she said, pointing to herself. “Marie…” She said her last name but it was unpronounceable and unrepeatable, so French was it.
I smiled back, repeating her first name. “Mer-say-bo-coop,” I told her in broken French, thanking her for stashing me in her tree house.
She smiled a your welcome and then pointed to my survival pack that sat next to me. “Foad?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” I replied, not getting her.
“Foad?” she repeated, pointing strenuously at my pack. She mimed the act of eating.
“Oh, food.” I suddenly got it. She was hungry and hoping I’d brought food with me.
I opened the pack and dug through the contents. There were three C-rations inside of it, in addition to two tins of water and some money. I pulled one out and tossed it to her. It was the chipped beef, packaged back when World War I had still been raging. Her eyes gleamed excitedly as she caught it. She looked the can over for a moment, trying to figure out how to open it. Finally she found the little metal key on the side and peeled it open. The ripe smell of cold, processed beef filled my nose. The thought of eating the contents of that can made my stomach threaten to rebel, but Marie dug right in, pulling the contents out with her fingers and stuffing them into her mouth as fast as she could. Her jaws chomped contentedly and her face looked as if she were in a state of orgasmic bliss. The entire can was gone in less than two minutes.
“Mer-say, mer-say,” she thanked me, smiling gladly. She said a lot more but I didn’t understand any of it. The jest of it seemed to be that what I’d just given her had been the best meal she’d had in a while. That struck me as odd. What about the cows out there? Why hadn’t she slaughtered and eaten one of them?
She said something else, a questioning tone in her voice as she stared at me.
I shrugged, not understanding her in the least. “Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “No parly-voo-fran-say.”
She smiled, a beautiful smile that almost made me forget that I was behind enemy lines and shells were slamming into the beach less than five miles away. She pointed at my crotch for a moment and then curled the fingers of her left hand into a tube, as if it was grasping something. She brought the hand to her lips and jerked it back and forth, looking at me questioningly.
I raised my eyebrows questioningly, knowing what that gesture meant in the English brothels I’d visited but figuring that she had no idea what she was indicating. I was wrong.
She edged herself forward and grabbed the fly of my uniform, tugging on it.
“Marie?” I said, confused, still thinking that this was a mistake.
She shushed me and continued to work on my pants, opening them completely and tugging them, along with my olive green underwear down, freeing my dick which was rapidly expanding into a full erection. She yanked my pants down and then leaned forward, taking my straining dick into her mouth. Her lips felt heavenly as she sucked me in, taking almost the full length down her throat. Her hand came up and pushed me backwards, forcing me to my back on the plywood floor of the tree-fort. She went to work in earnest.
She’d obviously sucked a dick or two before in her time. Her movements and actions were full of experience and knowledge. She slurped up and down, jacking me up and down with her soft hands at the same time. I was able to see down the front of her blue dress as she did this, viewing her small, firm tits which were capped with perky nipples the size of a pencil eraser. Her black hair covered my stomach, tickling me.
I groaned my pleasure as she sucked, not bothering to feel guilty that I was doing this with a sixteen (at best) year-old girl. Her tongue swirled and caressed me, making my pelvis thrust upward involuntarily. In the distance, I barely noticed that the shelling of the beach had come to a halt, noting it only because of the silence that resulted.
It didn’t take long before orgasm was straining up my spine. I thrust my hands down the front of her dress, feeling the firm springiness of her youthful tits. Just as I started to shoot my load down her throat, the sound of machine guns filled the air from the direction of the beach. I paid them no attention, lost as I was in the blissful feeling of long pent-in orgasm. She swallowed every drop that I shot down her throat, her mouth working hungrily as she struggled with the load I’d given her.
From nearby somewhere came the concussions of artillery guns firing. Probably, I thought, the guns I’d just tried to take out. Marie lifted her face from my crotch. A small dribble of my sperm was running down her chin. She gathered it up with a finger and then wiped it absently on her dress. Why had she sucked me off? I wondered. I had not initiated the contact, though I hadn’t protested it either. I sat up and looked at her, earning a smile for my efforts.
“Mer-say,” I told her, pulling my pants back up.
She nodded in acknowledgment and then cuddled up next to me, resting her head on my chest. We listened to the thumping of artillery and the rattle of machine gun fire in the distance. I wondered how the invasion was going. The first wave of troops had to be on the beach by now. How long until they worked their way to where we were? Would the Germans find me first? Would the Germans repel the invasion? I didn’t know but I was strangely unworried by all of this. I had a warm female cuddled up next to me and she obviously knew what to do with her mouth. It stood to reason that she knew what to do with the rest of her body too. It was a long-standing joke among us pilots that we wanted to get shot down over France where we could be hidden away in a French girl’s hayloft. Well, that was almost exactly what had happened to me. It was a French girl’s treehouse instead of a hayloft but it was a pleasant situation none the less. I pulled her pleasant body to mine and relaxed. Though I wouldn’t have thought it possible, I was soon asleep in her arms.
A loud explosion woke me up, making me jump nearly to my feet. It was quickly followed by another one. I looked around in confusion for a moment, disoriented but quickly remembering where I was and what had happened. A glance at my watch showed that nearly three hours had gone by. Marie, who had apparently been sleeping too, had also jerked awake at the sound. Her eyes showed fear as she looked at me. The explosions continued, about one every three seconds or so, rocking the treehouse violently as the concussions hit, hard enough to make the wood of it’s construction creak in protest.
“In-vay-she-on?” she asked me nervously.
I realized that the explosions were the impact of American naval guns, probably the two thousand pounders. Most likely they were seeking out the artillery site that Mike and I had failed to put out of commission. I hoped the gunners knew what they were doing and didn’t let one of those shells stray a little off-target. If one of them impacted within an eighth of a mile or so of our tree, our tree would be quickly reduced to toothpicks. I supposed that here was as safe as anywhere though. I nodded to Marie and this seemed to ease her mind a little. She cuddled back up to me again.
As I listened to the pounding of the shells, I became aware of her body and how it felt next to me. I looked at her, noting that I could see down the front of her dress. Her pale breasts were about three-quarters exposed, just enough so I could make out the hint of each nipple. The hem of her dress was also pulled upward quite a ways, revealing her legs to mid-thigh. Her legs were beautiful, very shapely though pale. I remembered spying what was between them and my cock began to stiffen once again in my pants.
I tilted her face to mine and kissed her softly, probing between her lips with my tongue. She returned the kiss, putting her arms around me, her tongue speaking volumes about her prior experience with this. She remains one of the best kissers I’ve ever encountered in my life. I dropped my hand to her thigh, feeling the silky, feminine smoothness of it. My hand began traveling upward, under the hem of her dress, finally reaching a moist tangle of hair. My fingers probed through her nest, seeking and finding her vaginal lips. They were wet and slippery, the way vaginal lips should be, and I slid first one and then two fingers inside of her. She moaned softly as I finger-fucked her. As expected, I encountered no maidenhead.
As explosions continued to rock us every three to five seconds, I pushed her backwards so she was lying on the wooden floor. She went willingly, smiling for me. I pulled the shoulders of her dress downward, baring her tits. They were, as I mentioned earlier, very firm in the way that only teenaged girls could have them. I lowered my mouth and began suckling her nipples while my hand found her pussy once again to continue to finger-fuck. She stroked my hair, moaning softly while closing her thighs around my probing hand, caressing it with the soft skin of her upper legs.
I switched to the other tit and, with my free hand, unbuttoned my pants and pushed them down, exposing my cock once again. I pulled myself atop her and she opened her legs for me. Taking my cock in hand I rubbed the head across her swollen lips and then slid inside of her. She was tight, tighter than any woman I’d ever had before and she groaned in pleasure as I sank to the hilt. Her arms came around my back as I began to thrust within her. Her pelvis came up to meet each of my thrusts and her tight vaginal muscles clamped and released in a knowing way. Whatever she was, this girl had done this before.
As we continued to fuck like rabbits on the floor of the treehouse, part of me noted that the explosions had stopped. It seemed that they had never found their mark because the artillery gun began thumping once again soon afterward. I could also hear the continuous rattle of machine gun fire and the single pops of M1 rifles coming from the direction of the beach, though it seemed much closer than it had been earlier. I put this out of my mind, filing it away for later perusal, and continued with my fornication.
I kissed her everywhere I could reach as I moved within her; her lips, her forehead, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Her skin was soft and salty under my tongue. The odor of sex rose into the air around us and a wet squishing sound emanated from our crotches. My cock was definitely in heaven, sliding between those tight, slippery lips.
I don’t know if she came or not. Back in 1944 not too many of us knew that women COULD have an orgasm. I picked up the speed of my thrusts, pulling her legs onto my shoulders for deeper penetration. She really seemed to like this a lot and began moaning continuously, punctuating each thrust with a grunt. My balls slapped obscenely against her ass. When my orgasm approached I threw myself back atop her, my pelvis slamming up and down until gobs of sperm shot into her teenaged body.
We lay together for a moment, listening to the crackle of small arms fire and the thumping of the heavy gun. Both of us were covered with sweat. Finally I rolled off of her, lying on my back and pulling my pants back up. She sat up and adjusted her dress so her breasts were covered once again. She pointed to my pack and said, “Foad!”
Food. She wanted to eat again. I opened the pack again and pulled out another C-ration, this one was pork according to the can. She was more than welcome to it. I handed it to her and started to close the pack again but she grabbed my arm. “No,” she said, shaking her head. She pointed to the pack and held up two fingers.
I looked at her, confused. She wanted to eat two of the rations? I shrugged and pulled out the last one, handing it over. She set both of them down in the corner, by the entrance, making no move to open them. Finally, I got it. The C-rations were payment for the sex she’d just provided me with. Apparently the going rate for a blowjob was one ration and the rate for a fuck was two. Though it somewhat shattered my image of her I certainly couldn’t complain about the price. Part of me wondered what she’d do for the money that was in my survival pack.
I stayed with her up there for the next two hours, listening to the gunfire coming closer and closer. The artillery gun was finally silenced at some point, though I don’t know how. Things became a little tense when I heard the shouts of German voices from nearby. I looked out one of the openings in the wall and saw at least a platoon running right towards us, rifles held before them. I thought it was the end but they rushed right by without giving the tree so much as a glance and continued inland.
The reason for this became apparent a few minutes later as a platoon of American infantrymen advanced into the field. They moved carefully, rifles held out before them, looking at everything as they went. Marie saw them and her eyes lit up.
“In-vay-she-on!” she yelled excitedly. The entire platoon of soldiers turned their rifles towards us.
“Marie!” I shouted as she began to scramble down the wooden steps to the ground, her C-rations in her left hand.
“Don’t shoot!” I yelled out the window. “I’m American! Don’t shoot me!”
“Get the fuck out of that tree!” a voice yelled. “And keep your fuckin’ hands where we can see ’em!”
I did as they said, climbing carefully down. Marie had run over to them but they’d already decided that she wasn’t a threat. I walked carefully towards them, my hands raised. As I got closer and they saw that I was indeed American, their rifles lowered and relaxed.
“You a pilot?” the lieutenant in charge asked me, his eyes looking at me as if I were a species of bug.
“Yeah,” I confirmed. “Shot down earlier this morning.”
His eyes looked at the treehouse and then Marie and then finally, with a glare, me. I knew what he was thinking. While he and his men had been fighting and dying on the beach, I’d been in a treehouse fucking a French teenager. It must’ve seemed grossly unfair to him.
He dispatched a small squad of his men to lead me back to the safety of the beachhead. The last I saw of Marie she was showing the soldiers her C-rations and trying to explain to them how she wanted more. I never saw her again but part of her stayed with me, in more ways than one, since I turned up with the clap a few weeks later. I’ve had many a lay since then but none has ever felt as nice as doing it in a treehouse with the sounds of war as accompaniment.