Blitzed

Without my really noticing, we were joined at the table by one of Wilbur's friends, an American sergeant who looked to be on the wrong side of thirty. He sat studying me with compassion as Wilbur explained, then he seized my hand. "Come on Miss. Let's get you away from the memories."

I tried to pull free because the memories were all I had. Memories of a shy grin, of the bluest eyes I had ever seen. Memories of strong arms as we danced. Memories of a warm kiss leading to a gentle hand on my breast, and more urgently on my fanny. And yes, memories of the shag we had almost had, and would now never get.

The sergeant's grip was too strong, and I was too numb too resist, so I allowed him to walk me home, where he rapped firmly on the door. Mum answered, and he pushed me forward. " Thelma's upset ma'am, and I figured she needed her Mom."

Mum nodded and moved aside. "I see, well you'd better bring her inside and tell me what it's all about." Bypassing the parlour, she ushered us into the living room, where Dad was sitting at the table forking mashed potato into his mouth. He looked up to say something, but Mum shook her head warningly and pushed me into a chair. "Right, who are you, and what happened?"

"I'm Sergeant Charles Vickery ma'am, but everyone calls me Chuck. I'm supply sergeant at the base. It seems the little lady here has a boy problem, and I figured her Mom was the best person to deal with it."

Without waiting to be invited he pulled out a chair and sat down. Producing a pack of 'Lucky Strike' cigarettes he lit one and offered one to Dad, which was accepted eagerly. As I sat steeped in misery, he began to tell Mum and Dad what Wilbur and Doris had told him. Dad listened in silence, puffing contentedly at his smoke until it was two thirds finished. Pinching it out, he dug his old pipe from the bottom drawer of the dresser, and breaking open the cigarette end he packed the loose tobacco into the bowl.

"Can't afford to waste tobacco," he said bluntly when he saw Chuck watching him. "Get another few drags out of that before bed."

Shaking his head in astonishment, Chuck extracted two smokes from the pack, tucking them into his shirt pocket, and tossed the three quarters full packet to Dad. "Here, keep the pack. I have more at the base." he said, before picking up where he left off.

When he concluded, Mum nodded and put her arm around me, pillowing my cheek against her warm soft breasts. "Thank you sergeant -- um, Chuck. It was kind of you to look after her." She gestured with her head towards the table. "I'd ask you to stay for supper, but we only have potatoes. Rationing you know." she added apologetically.

His jaw dropped. "Oh Christ!"

Dad looked at him sharply and spoke for the first time. "We don't swear in this house, lad. Not in front of the women."

"I'm sorry Sir, I just never realised how tough you guys have it here."

Squaring his shoulders, Dad stared at him defiantly. "We're English lad. We got through the last war, we'll get through this one."

There was an awkward silence for a while, then Chuck looked at his expensive wristwatch. "Well I'd better be going, or I'll miss the truck back to the base."

As the soldier left, Dad stuck out a hand. "Thanks for bringing the girl home." He watched Chuck walk down the street, then for the first time in ages he put his arms around me. "Poor kid."

I was a bit surprised because he had never been very demonstrative. It wasn't because he didn't love me, because I knew he did. It was just his way. Then the tears really came, and he held me awkwardly until I quieted enough to go to bed and sleep.

There was something different about Dad next day. Nothing I could put my finger on, just -- well -- sort of different. We were sitting listening to the wireless that night, when there was a knock in the door. Mum went to answer, and returned with the sergeant. Dumping a haversack on the table, he looked at Mum and Dad. "Look folks, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I felt real bad last night seeing how little you have compared with us in the States, so I threw together a couple of things for you."

He fished in the bag and handed Mum a lump of bacon. "Oh my god," she whispered in disbelief. "Look Fred, I can boil this and make soup. We'll get four meals out of it."

"Heck no ma'am!" There was outrage in Chuck's voice. "You can't ruin good bacon by boiling it! If you want to make soup I'll bring you a ham bone." Digging into the bag again he pulled out a mess tin and showed her three eggs, carefully packed in screwed up newspaper. "To go with the bacon." By now Mum was on the verge of tears, but it didn't stop there. Next out of the bag was a packet of coffee -- real coffee, not the bottled substitute which was all we could usually get hold of, followed by a tin of evaporated milk and a pound of sugar.

This was the last straw for Mum. Tears streaming down her face, she threw her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Oh god Chuck, how can we ever thank you?"

He gave her an embarrassed grin and glanced at Dad, who seemed to have discovered a fascination for his shoes. "I think you just did." Slinging the now empty haversack over his shoulder, he turned towards the door and paused. "Oh, I almost forgot. A man can't enjoy a good coffee without a smoke." Delving into his pocket, he handed a couple of packs of 'Luck Strikes' to Dad, who tried to stammer his thanks, but was too choked up to do more than nod. "That's all I could scrape up for now. I'll try to see what I can find when I open the supply store tomorrow." Seeing the uncertain expressions on Mum and Dad's faces he shrugged. "Hey, don't worry about it. Uncle Sam can afford it. Anyway I have to go or I'll miss the truck." Before any of us could say anything, the door closed behind him, leaving us staring in amazement at the unexpected bounty on the table.

Nobody spoke for many minutes, then Mum filled a small saucepan with water and set it on the stove. Digging out an old stocking, she cut out a square and dropped it into the boiling water. When it was thoroughly sterilised, she piled two heaped spoonfuls of coffee in the centre and tied it with a thread, before dropping it into a fresh pan of water. As she waited for it to boil, Dad made a hole on the top of the tin of milk, and ten minutes later we were inhaling the aroma and savouring the taste of our first fresh coffee in over three years, whilst dad sucked blissfully on his third cigarette.

The following night Mum sliced three thin rashers from the the bacon and fried them with the eggs, then used the melted fat to fry a slice each of not quite stale bread. We sat at the table, mouths watering as we gazed spellbound at the sumptuous feast, almost as if we were afraid to desecrate it with knives and forks. Finally Dad cut the crust from one edge of the bread and dipped it into the golden yolk, sighing as he lifted it to his mouth. The spell broken, Mum and I copied his actions precisely. We ate slowly, not wanting to lose the taste of each precious mouthful by swallowing, but inevitably the meal came to an end, with every trace carefully wiped from the plates with what remained of the bread. We laughed with glee when Dad pushed his plate away with a loud satisfied burp, then putting the water filled pan on the stove to finish the meal with freshly brewed coffee, Mum cleared away the plates.

Dad took control of the coffee making, whilst Mum prepared for her work shift, and was pouring it into the cups when there was a muffled banging on the door. I went to answer, and was greeted by the sight of a grinning American army sergeant, struggling with a large wooden box as he thumped the door with his boot. Pushing his way past me, he dumped his burden on the table just as Mum came down the stairs, and he stood laughing at three pairs of bulging disbelieving eyes.

Slowly the box disgorged a positive cornucopia of treasure. First there came not one, but two massive ham bones almost two feet in length, plump hocks untouched by knife, and with generous slivers of redly glistening meat clinging to the gleaming white bone. Dad could not tear his eyes away for many long seconds, then prompted by Mum he went out to the shed and returned with a small saw. Trying not to pry into the box, he went into the kitchen with the bones, and we watched as he carefully cleaned the saw at the sink. I could see tears in the eyes of this normally unemotional man, as with meticulous care he cut through the bone, laying aside the meaty hocks before sawing the rest of the bones into pan sized pieces, placing them side by side on the draining board.

Task finished, he finally allowed his gaze to wander over the rest of the box contents, now spread out on the table. Chuck watched with an amused smile as Dad picked up and examined each package, carefully replacing it before moving to the next. There was more than we could ever have dreamed of seeing in a month of Sundays. A huge bag of flour, more eggs, dried split peas, three tins of cooked meat, more sugar, more tinned milk, tinned processed cheese, a square lump of real butter wrapped in greaseproof paper! The list seemed endless.

By now, Chuck was holding his sides, trying to control his laughter. We knew that what we considered untold wealth was normal fare to him, just as deep down we knew that he had almost certainly stolen most of it from army supplies, but in times of need some questions were better left unasked. Dad offered to pay him, but the offer was met with blunt refusal, and the reminder that as Chuck had said, Uncle Sam could afford it. He wandered into the kitchen and returned chewing a sliver of ham. "Ham will keep longer if you put it somewhere cool in a pillow case rinsed in vinegar and water."

Mum nodded. "OK, Thelma can do that later." She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek again. "Thank you so much Chuck. I have to go to work."

He took the liberty of hugging her briefly. "OK, but before you go there's one more thing. I won these in a poker game, and I don't think they would look too good on me." Digging into his haversack, he handed a flat packet to Mum, and a similar packet to me. "For the ladies."

We tore at the paper eagerly, gasping with delight to reveal perhaps the most priceless treasure a woman could have in those war torn days. Beautiful, sheer, shiny stockings! We neither knew nor cared where he got them. We only knew we had them. That they were ours!

I threw my arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder, unable to speak. After a few moments he eased out of my embrace and passed his bag to Dad. "This is for the man of the house."

Dad lifted the flap. "Oh Christ! Oh Holy Jesus! Oh f..." he checked himself before he could finish the expletive, and pulled out a bottle of whisky and five packets of cigarettes held together by an elastic band. Placing them alongside the other stuff on the table, he pumped Chuck's hand for what seemed like forever. "Thanks lad," he muttered gruffly.

When he finally managed to free his hand, Chuck made a show of pretending to count his fingers, then shrugged. "Think nothing of it. Cost me nothing. One of the advantages of being a supply sergeant."

Dad chose to ignore this virtual admission that everything on the table was probably stolen. "Maybe, but still..." He looked longingly at the bottle. "I'm not much of a drinking man, but why not?" Fetching two glasses, he poured a half inch of golden liquid into each, and handed one to our generous benefactor. "Here's to a quick end to this damned war."

Mum left for work, and I set about soaking a pillow case in vinegar and water to wrap the ham bones. I washed my hands after I finished and went back into the living room, where the men were still sitting and nursing their drinks.

Five minutes later Chuck glanced at his watch. "I guess I'd better go catch the truck." Draining his glass he stood up, waving away Dad's thanks as his hand was shaken again, and turned to open the door. He had barely left when I noticed he had left his haversack behind, so I chased after him and caught up just as he turned the corner into the next street.

"Thank you for the stockings, they're beautiful." I murmured as I handed him his bag.

"You're very welcome. I would have liked to put them on you, but your Pa would have shot me" he added teasingly.

I felt my face redden at the thought of his hands on my legs and looked down at the ground, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"Is it alright if I walk with you for a bit?" I realised instantly that I may have sounded a bit forward, but it was all I could think of to say on the spur of the moment to cover my embarrassment.

He smiled with what I took for genuine pleasure. "Sure, glad of the company."

We didn't say much as we walked, and at the next corner we turned on to the main road. Half way along the block he stopped. "This is as far as I go. The truck will be along soon." After a couple of minutes he drew me into a shop doorway and kissed me gently. Without thinking I kissed him back just as gently, trying to ignore the hand on my breast, and seconds later the knee rubbing between my legs. Things were going too fast for me, but I couldn't be angry because he had been so kind. Besides, I thought I had pretty much brought it on myself by being so forward.

Before too long I was glad I was wearing slacks because his hand had replaced his knee, rubbing, stroking, pressing the fabric up into the crack of my fanny. I wanted to stop him but it felt so good, nearly as good as when Hamish (damn him for deserting me) had his hand inside my knickers. A sudden irrational need for revenge made me part my legs a fraction so Chuck could rub a little harder. I came to my senses when he tried to push his hand down the front of my slacks, and I pushed him away.

"No Chuck, I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea but I'm not that kind of girl."

To my surprise, instead of being upset he smiled. "I know you're not, but you can't blame a man for trying." He was quiet for a few moments, then he looked at me seriously. "When the time is right for you, you will be that kind of girl. Maybe not with me, but when the right guy comes along you'll know it. It's against nature for a pretty girl to let her tits and pussy go unappreciated for too long." I was spared having to answer by the roar of an engine, and we stepped from the doorway. As he climbed into the back of the American army lorry he smiled again. "Still friends?"

I nodded and smiled back. "Of course. Still friends." Watching the lorry drive away I thought about what he said. He was perfectly right. If my parents hadn't come home too soon, I would have been 'that kind of girl' weeks ago. What was more, if I had been wearing a skirt instead of slacks I might well have become 'that kind of girl' a few minutes ago. I was glad he hadn't apologised for trying it on though, because he was right about that too. How could I blame him for trying when I was as much at fault as he was?

Making my way home I thought about something else he said. Not about me being pretty, although that was not something I would ever get tired of hearing. About tits and pussy. I knew about tits of course, what teenager doesn't, although I had never thought of my own breasts as being tits. Pussy was a new one on me though. Common sense told me that used in conjunction with tits it could only mean fanny. I had heard some of the ruder boys talking about twats and even cunts, which meant the same as fanny, so I guessed pussy was the Yankee name for what was between a girl's legs.

Growing up, I had only ever though of it as 'It', or 'down there'. That had changed when I became interested in boys, and I realised suddenly that I had a 'fanny', and that boys actually wanted to feel it, although all attempts were firmly rejected. Just as suddenly, boy's 'willies' miraculously became 'dicks'.

As I walked along the dark street I whispered my new words to myself, testing them. 'Tits -- tits -- tits'. I was beginning to like the 'feel' of it, although I was still undecided about 'pussy'. Still, I expected it would grow on me. I giggled at the unintentional pun. Pussy growing on me. My pussy was certainly growing!

Getting closer to home I began to experience mild cramps, reminding me that my 'monthly' was due in the next day or two, so when I got into the house I said goodnight to Dad, who was still nursing the same drink, and went straight to bed.

Some time later I was awakened by the air raid sirens. I had no idea of the time, but it must have been reasonably late because Mum was home from work, and like myself she and Dad were in their night clothes. As usual, Mum squeezed into the cupboard under the stairs, followed by me, and then Dad, who wrapped his arms protectively around both of us. The bombs seemed to be coming closer tonight, and we tried to cling tighter together, as though the closer contact meant greater safety.

After a few minutes I became aware of something hard pressing against my bum. I knew what it was, and tried to ignore it, but after the way Chuck had touched me I was beginning to understand what Hamish had said about dying without knowing.

Moments later I froze with fear when Dad pushed his hand under my nightie, and for the first time a man touched my bare fanny. I knew fathers weren't supposed to touch their daughters in such a manner, but the way he was stroking my clitoris was making me so wet and excited that although I told myself I should stop him, I was even more afraid that he really would stop if I told him to.

Very slowly he inched the back of my night dress up, and with a shock I realised that his dick was out of his pyjamas, because I could feel it against my bare bottom. I knew what he wanted to do, and I knew it was wrong, but right at that moment I needed to know. I was terrified of dying and never knowing how it felt. A bomb fell a couple of streets away, shaking the house just as Dad pushed into me, and I let out a loud groan. I had expected it to hurt, and it did, but the pain was cancelled out by the almost unbearable excitement of knowing that even though our breasts were pressed tightly together, Mum had not the faintest inkling that Dad was shagging me. That I was trembling not from fear of the bombing, but from the forbidden thrill of Dad's hard dick driving in and out of my fanny.

It didn't take long, certainly not long enough for me, because I was just beginning to enjoy the slide of hard flesh into wet flesh when he pulled out, and I felt the hot splatter of his stuff, what the boys at school had called spunk, against the back of my leg. Suddenly the bombs didn't matter. I felt invincible. I was floating on a cloud of euphoria, because even though it had been too brief I finally knew what it was like to be shagged, and it was glorious. So glorious that even though Dad's dick was no longer in me, I was still feeling little explosions, more powerful than any bombs, deep inside my no longer virginal fanny.

When the all clear sounded, we dragged ourselves out of our hidey hole under the stairs and went back to bed. I woke in the morning bleeding heavily, and feeling a little sorry that Dad had pulled out instead of letting go inside me, since it wouldn't have mattered anyway. I took a pee and cleaned up as well as I could, then fished my sanitary belt and pads from my drawer. Dad was already at the table looking guilty when I went downstairs, but his face cleared when I smiled to let him know that it was OK. Mum came from the kitchen with breakfast, the last of the nearly stale bread, fried in real butter. Oh so extravagant, but what a treat! And washed down with real coffee! When we had finished eating, Dad and me got up to cycle to work, whilst Mum took the cups into the kitchen.

As we wheeled our bicycles along the side of the house to the street, he put his hand between my legs, disappointment clear on his face when he felt the thick pad, and I knew exactly how he felt. I could still 'feel' his dick inside me from last night, and now that he had allayed my fear of dying without ever having been shagged I wanted more.