Ken's Wartime Valentine

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Copyright April 2018

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific living persons.

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This story is alongside 'Vera's Wartime Valentine'. It is independent but tells the same tale from the point of view of the other participant, explaining a different perspective and interpretations of the same events. Neither a sequel nor a prequel, perhaps a 'paraquel'? They can be read in any order, but were written in the sequence Vera-Ken-Doris.

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Ken didn't like this dump. This was a miserable place. A grey misty rain swept across the country, saturating everything and everyone. Why couldn't the rain just pause and then come down properly? The dampness penetrated the tents, huts, even the vehicles. This rain didn't bounce off the road, you couldn't even see the drops land; it floated down like heavy smoke.

The mist hung across the valley, mixed with the smoke from the coal fires. The locals even had a word for it; smog - a mixture of smoke and fog.

Ever since they had been there (which had been a few weeks now), Ken hadn't seen a scrap of blue sky. The rain sometimes stopped for a few hours and then started again but the gray sky seemed permanent.

He looked through the window of the hut where he worked as a store-man. This was nothing like his home town in Montana where the winters were cold and the summers hot. Where mountains were high and the valleys deep. Where it was dry until it rained, and then when the rain ceased the sun came out again.

Here, just a few miles distant there were hills just high enough to separate the valleys. They weren't high enough to even wear special boots to climb them, the troops jogged over them through trees and across moorland full of grazing sheep. The locals called them mountains, but obviously they had never seen the Rockies.

The valleys were dirty industrial strips with a line of coal mines at the bottom, connected by a railway line and a filthy stream. On the hillsides were houses packed in so tightly and joined together that to get to the back yards you had to walk through the house - and that meant through the living room and the tiny kitchen. Each house also had a front room that was never even used, although it was kept fully furnished and spotlessly clean like the front doorstep. Considering that the family all lived in two bedrooms - and some even had lodgers as well, that seemed ridiculous.

The front doorstep thing had him baffled. Every single day, every doorstep was scrubbed white. Yet the footpath alongside was left for the soot from the coal fires and the dust from the coal itself, which was dumped onto the footpath from a truck and left to be shovelled into a coal-shed.

Heck, he lived in a mining town back home, but that was copper mining and that didn't make this mess.

The folks here lived in primitive conditions; most had the lavatory in a brick shed at the end of the garden and had tin baths stored outside, hanging on a hook to be brought in whenever someone needed to wash. Every bath with a line painted around the inside, above which level it was illegal to have the water. During the war everything was measured, rationed, saved.

However from his wooden storehouse where he worked he could not see any of that, just more buildings and in the distance - if the rain cleared - an area of woodland. Beyond that he knew that there were fields and the coast with sand dunes. They ran over the dunes some days, for variety. Along the river bank, along the road, or along the shallow river itself. As soon as he saw the fucking river he knew what was ahead. Heavy, soft sand that sank beneath his feet as he tried to run up the hills.

There was an ancient stone castle next to the river, 800 years old and looking like it was straight from the pages of a picture-book. There were stone bridges, with holes in the parapet where the farmers used to drive the sheep into the river as a primitive sheep-dip back in the olden days. Yet the local people took no account of this unless asked directly.

Heck, if they had any of these things back home folks would be just so proud.

He knew these places because he had to run around them with his squad most days. The sergeant yelled, the men ran and chanted.

Ken wasn't lonely; his mates were good company but he missed his parents, that was all. He had left Montana behind and didn't even have a girlfriend to go back there for. He had been told that he would have no problem finding an English girlfriend but the irony was that he wasn't even in England. He was in a country that he hadn't even heard of before, called 'Wales'.

The locals were insistent that Wales wasn't part of England, they had their own language. But they were certainly part of the same war.

The camp was only a short walk from a massive ammunition factory, belching smoke and steam every hour of the day. There was a field opposite the factory where they burned off the waste material that had failed inspection and there were constant explosions and flashes. A gang of local kids appeared every day to cheer and hoot whenever there was a particularly loud bang.

Railways were all over the countryside, with trains carrying coal, steel, petrol and of course the ammunition. Trucks ferried materials between the factory and another installation nearby where railway tracks disappeared into the hillside. He found that local people did not discuss this place nor any other facility that might be connected with the war.

Near to there - whatever it was - there was another tumble-down castle. And in the town itself, yet another one, set up on a low cliff overlooking the river. Was there no end to these things?

In the night-time there was the blackout, rigidly enforced. Every window had heavy black curtains or was painted black. No door could be opened without the lights inside being extinguished first, no cigarette could be lit without shielding the flame from aeroplanes. Every vehicle had shields over the lights so that only the minimum area of road was illuminated.

Yes, this place was definitely in the war-zone.

In the countryside there were cottages with roofs of wheat straw, usually with crows nesting inside yet the crows were not regarded as pests and left alone. No Sir, he was not in Montana any more.

The local females were mostly a pale-faced lot. Generations of hard graft, filth and poverty had bred a people of short stature and with an accent that he struggled to understand. They seemed to sing as they spoke and interspersed their sentences with random local words. All in all they were not like the girls that he fancied back home - the girls that never fancied him.

What did he want to return for? He had spent his youth eyeing up the talent at hops but getting nowhere. He was nervous and gangly, the girls were blond and confident and had all scorned his advances.

Now, with army food and exercise he had filled out. His shirts were tighter across the chest now, his belly firmer. The spring was in the air, the sap was rising and there were dances every weekend at the ammunition factory. The soldiers regularly walked the short distance to the entertainment hall there.

The events were well attended by the women who worked there, pleased to see an influx of males. So one week Ken went along with the others but as usual he was not confident in the presence of girls.

Even supported by his mates Pete and Hank, he became tongue-tied and let them do the talking - and pulling. They sat at a long trestle table, whilst a band played waltzes on violins and Americans tried to jitterbug.

A couple of girls sat down with the three soldiers. These ladies were not employed at the factory, but drafted to work the fields now that all the male farm-hands had gone into the armed forces. Everyone was doing their bit in this country.

Ken let the others do the talking, boasting brash tales of an extravagant life-style that didn't match reality.

Hank made out that he owned a ranch with thousands of head of cattle whereas he was a lowly paid hand, Pete pretended that he designed motor cars which was fanciful as no motors were made anywhere near he lived.

The girls were pretty, both with dark curly hair and a decent pair of lungs. One asked Ken about his life; he told the truth about him working in a store. Eventually they moved away and he later saw them dancing with some other soldiers. That was the story of his life.

* * * *

A month later the officer in charge of the camp decided to hold a dance there. The occasion was St. Valentines but it was more than that. This was an attempt to introduce the troops to the populace, make friends. Some elements were resentful of the strangers with their high pay and access to goods unavailable locally so some integration was deemed necessary.

So banners were painted and posters printed to be pinned on the telegraph poles around the town, especially where the buses lined up outside the ammunition factory and at the railway station built especially for the factory on the main line that went all the way to London.

Ken pressed his uniform and shined his shoes. He'd had a haircut and an extra shave to look his best, now he met his mates and strolled to the briefing room now transformed into a dance hall with a bar and a stage where some musicians were setting up.

By some miracle it had stopped raining and the blanket of dreary grey cloud was clearing from the sky.

He had a beer, good and cold unlike the vile warm brew available in the pubs in the town. Soon some buses and trucks arrived, carrying girls for the dance. They had all made an effort for the night, he could see. However they couldn't disguise the worn out clothes and lack of proper cosmetics. Some even wore heavy woollen stockings. He knew that he could get thin nylon stockings to impress them and that was quite common amongst the others, but he would not stoop so low.

The other guys from his unit, Pete and Hank were dismissive of the herd of females. With a few more beers Pete had suggested a depressing competition: Who could pull the ugliest girl.

Ken was unimpressed; the idea was disrespectful and he would much rather treat the night in the spirit that was intended. Pete wandered over and started talking to a girl with broad shoulders, narrow hips and short legs.

He returned for a couple of beers and indicated his choice, "What do you think girls, is Spike a winner?"

Ken was confused, "Is that her name? Who calls a girl Spike?"

Pete laughed loudly. "You fool, the bulldog. From 'Tom and Jerry'. Look at her, all chest and no ass, looks like she's chewing a wasp." Ken looked at the girl; she had puffy cheeks and a tight mouth. He nearly laughed out loud despite himself.

He wandered over with the other guys, one of the girls wasn't talking to anyone so he introduced himself. The girl was called Vera and worked on a farm. She was large-framed, almost six feet tall and strongly built. She would never have made the cheer-leader team with her build and plain features.

However he didn't like to see a guest unattended, so he bought her a drink as the band played dance tunes. He asked her to dance, but she was even more awkward than he was and had to be shown how to move to the rhythm, how to swivel and step. Soon she caught on and enthusiastically threw herself around.

He made some other dancers move away and give her room, then bought her more drinks and had more dances.

He wanted to get from his interfering friends, so he took her outside for some fresh air away from the smoky atmosphere and the noise. At the rear of the building he found a corner where the shadows provided some privacy. He found a piece of paper and wrote down his contact details so that she could send him letters wherever he went, then he braced himself for backlash and tried a kiss.

To his astonishment his advances weren't rejected, indeed they were reciprocated. Vera kissed him back and he felt the touch of her tongue against his. She tasted sweet, this was intriguing and dangerous.

He placed his arms around her shoulder and hugged her; she snuggled in close. Feeling bold, he cupped her breast. It was small but he could feel it clearly through her thin dress and undergarments. It was soft yet at the same time firm and a nipple prickled up against his palm.

Encouraged, he moved his hand up to the neckline of her dress to feel her skin, then slid his fingers down under her clothes, following the swell of the flesh. Suddenly he felt the stiff nipple between his finger and thumb and she was breathing deeply as she kissed.

Her hand took his wrist and removed the hand from her breast. Disappointed, he thought the evening was over as she brought his hand down to her side. However she deliberately brought his hand under her skirt to her pussy. Even through her panties it was warm and welcoming.

Vera was standing with her legs parted and he was able to place his fingers in that cosy crevasse. But she moved his hand again, further up to the waistband. He took the hint and slid his hand inside, feeling the soft curls of hair there. Then there was a moistness and he touched her cunt, separating the soft lips.

Her tongue pressed firmly into his mouth, between his teeth and against his own tongue. He understood her desires and felt the entrance to her vagina. She still did not protest so he slid his finger partially inside her front passage.

Vera removed her tongue from his mouth and breathed out. "I can't, you know, I'm a virgin. I can't go any further."

He felt her hand pressing against his erection, unfastening his flies. Then she was inside his shorts, her warm fingers around his cock and bringing it into the cool air. He had never been touched like that before and when she moved her hand it was overwhelming.

He felt himself going over the edge, then before he could (or wanted to) say anything he ejaculated.

He spurted uncontrollably as he stood with his cock in her grip.

When he had finished she studied her hand which was dripping with his cum. She brought some paper from her pocket and wiped her hand clean, then she turned and dashed for her bus as he tried to apologise.

Ken went back into the hall as it was emptying. Back in the bright light he saw that there was a wet stain on his uniform pants. Casually he found his abandoned glass of beer and tipped it over himself to disguise the mess.

Pete hollered from the other side of the room. 'Spike' had rejected his advances but Ken had kissed his choice and fulfilled the requirements. Pete declared that Vera looked more like Bluto than Olive Oyl and thus it was proclaimed that Ken had won the contest. With a wry shrug of his shoulders, Ken made his way back to his quarters.

* * * *

Ken received a letter. Not the usual type, from his parents in Montana delayed several weeks due to the vagaries of the war in the Atlantic. This was local with a British stamp and an unfamiliar writing.

He ripped it open; it was from Vera.

She wanted to meet him again, so he wrote a letter in reply. The next day was spent scrounging some transport and he finally managed to borrow a bicycle from the guardhouse. Armed with a leave pass, he set off to find the address.

It was a farm, set down a lane a few miles away close to an RAF gunnery range. The Anti-Aircraft guns pounded away sporadically as a tiny plane flew across the sky towing a flag as a target. Ken leaned the bike against a solid brick platform set into the hedgerow and found her waiting for him.

He was embarrassed about his previous malfunction in the shadows but she didn't mention it. She ran to him and kissed, then suggested that they take a stroll up the hill. They followed a path alongside a stone wall, then sat down on a dry patch of grass next to a tree. He expected the grass to be damp, but it had dried effectively near the tree with the sandy soil.

Ken learned that she was not a local lass but had been conscripted to work on the land. There were two other girls there as part of the force known as the 'Women's Land Army' as well as the farmer and his wife. Vera shared a room with the others, who were called Doris and Agnes

They kissed for a while, then she unfastened his flies to hold him. Ken showed her how to touch him, how to move her hand gently. He lasted longer this time and removed her panties to run his fingers through her pubes and kiss her belly but eventually he succumbed. He made sure that his clothes were out of the way and his semen flew across the grass as she watched, fascinated.

* * * *

Ken walked back to the farmhouse with Vera. There were two faces at the windows, checking out Vera's new boyfriend. Then one appeared at the doorway as they passed. She looked familiar to Ken, then as he rode away on his bicycle he recognised her as one of the girls he had spoken to at the dance at the ammunition works. It was only a small town after all.

Afterwards he visited often on the borrowed bicycle. The camp was growing and the quantity of stores that required cataloguing was vast but he managed to get away easily enough and if he couldn't get a pass his mates would cover for him for a couple of hours during an evening.

Vera was insistent on remaining a virgin, though he offered to bring condoms which were freely available in the camp but that wasn't the point. She wanted to remain intact for her wedding. So the days passed and spring turned towards summer. The weather was fine and sunny most days; the rainy spell had ended.

One day he arrived without telling Vera first. She was not there, but he was greeted by the farmer's wife Edith. She was a character, always with a smile on her face. On this occasion however she was washing at the pump in the farmyard. Stripped to the waist and levering the iron pump to pour cold water over herself, she wasn't in the slightest abashed to find the young American looking at her massive tits.

On the contrary she shook her hair free of water and roared with laughter at his discomfort.

She wore only thick pants made from a canvas material and heavy boots, caked with mud as she caught hold of a towel and dried herself.

"Come inside Cariad and sit yourself down," she called to him. "I'll see if our Vera is about."

Ken didn't quite catch what sh had said, 'Carry-add', it sounded like. It made no sense to him but she seemed friendly enough so he let it slide. Anyway she left him alone in the house whilst she made a quick search of the farm.

When she returned, she was unaccompanied. "She's nowhere around, I think Sam has sent her to town for something."

Her husband was Samuel, who owned the farm.

Edith had slipped the towel over her shoulders but made no attempt to cover her chest. She was short and stocky in build but years of hard work had left her without any flab to her body. "You don't mind me, do you?" She spoke with the strange patterns of the local folk. "A good looking lad like you has seen many ladies without their clothes on I expect."

He hadn't, but wasn't about to admit that. He tried to smile in a non-committed way.

She continued, "Can you do me a favour? Give my back a rub dry will you?" She presented her back to him and he automatically took the towel. It was old and rough and he rubbed her back with it.

"Oh, that's wonderful". Edith squirmed against his touch "Harder, my poor muscles are aching."

He stiffened his fingers and massaged her shoulders through the towel.

"You've got good fingers, has anyone told you that?" She took the towel and rubbed it under her breasts. Then she tossed the towel onto a chair and caught his hands, bringing them around her waist to her stomach. "You do things to a woman, I can tell you."