No Flying Tonight Ch. 10-12

The bus pulled up two hundred yards from his house. Jane linked her arm in his as they walked along the footpath towards the house. When they reached the front gate, the front door opened and his mother ran out of the house and along the path towards them, closely followed by his aunt.

"John you're here. I saw the bus go past and I hoped you'd be on it. How are you? Are you hungry? I bet you'd like a cup of tea."

"Hold on there, mum. One question at a time. I'm all right, I'm hungry and I would like a cup of tea. How about you, Jane?"

Jane nodded; it was an excuse to stay and she had a lot she wanted to say and do.

When they got into the house the table was laid and the kettle already waiting on the stove. In less than five minutes his mother appeared from the kitchen with a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches.

"I'm afraid it's not much, John. Rationing has got worse since you went to Canada."

For the next twenty minutes they ate and talked about Canada, his voyage, the journey from Scotland and the reason for his aunt's presence. His description of Canada and his journey home had many of the characteristics of holiday reminiscences; Jack providing details of what he'd done and where he'd been with the others asking about the weather, the landscape and the boat journey, but most of the questions were directed towards Canada and Canadians. What were Canadians like? What were their houses like? Was there rationing? He answered them all, but was careful not to make any reference to Sophie.

It was his mother who broached the subject of his aunt's presence.

"John, I suppose you are wondering why your aunt is here. I don't think you know but your Uncle Ray was killed, just outside Tripoli, two weeks ago. She's come to stay with us. In fact she'll be staying for the foreseeable future as your dad has found a flat in High Wickham and I'm going to stay with him. Your aunt will be looking after the house."

Jack's Uncle Ray had been a regular soldier in the Royal Tank Regiment. In 1940 he had been injured at the Battle of Arras when his under-powered, under-armoured and under-gunned Matilda had been hit by a shell from an 88mm anti-tank gun. His uncle had escaped, but his tank had brewed-up with two of his comrades trapped inside and he had been forced to watch and listen to their screams as they burnt to death. In early 1942 he had been sent to the Western Desert to join the 6th Armoured Division, a part of the 8th Army, and had participated in the defeat of Rommel at El Alamein. He had died outside Tripoli in one of the final battles of the North African campaign.

Jack liked his aunt. She was his mother's younger sister who had been married to a career soldier. He hadn't seen her much as she had lived in the south for most of her married life and had only visited Shaw on rare occasions. When she had visited she had indulged Jack - probably because she had no children of her own -- taking him to Belle Vue to see the zoo and the circus. He was glad to see her again, but saddened by the circumstance.

After they'd finished eating his mother got up, cleared the table, and then came back from the kitchen to announce she and his aunt were going to the vicarage for a meeting of the parochial church council and wouldn't be back until between ten and ten-thirty.

As she left she eyed Jack, gave a hint of a smile, and said,

"We'll see you later. I'm sure you won't miss us. After all this time you two must have a lot to talk about."

As they walked down the front path Jane got up, slid over to him and sat on his knee.

"Jack, I told you I'd missed you, but what I haven't told you is how much I missed this."

As she finished speaking she reached down and grabbed his cock; he hadn't been expecting it and almost flinched at her touch. She reached for his fly, undid the buttons, with a more practiced ease than the first time she had done it, and reached into his underwear. She pushed them down with the back of her wrist; exposing his cock. It was almost erect. She bent her head and kissed it and then, teasingly, ran her tongue around and under the rim. It felt good and his cock responded; becoming fully erect.

"Gosh, Jack, I'd forgotten how big this thing is."

She returned to her task and kneeling on the carpet in front of him, took him into her mouth. He watched the top of her head bobbing up and down and heard the sucking sound as she sought to draw his seed from his balls and all he could think was, he was betraying Sophie. In the end it was his body which betrayed her.

Jane was good, better than he remembered and after two to three minutes of her ministrations, he felt himself starting to come. He grabbed her head and started to face-fuck her. She relaxed her throat muscles and managed to swallow almost all of the monster. When he came he flooded her throat, causing her to gag slightly and move back until she had only the last two inches in her mouth. She continued to suck until he finished thrusting and she felt his legs tremble for the last time. She got up, wiped her mouth and with a laugh on her face, said,

"Tastes good; it hasn't changed -- although I think I may have tasted a hint of maple syrup."

He had sent her a bottle just before Christmas.

She kissed him and said,

"Jack, it's time you fucked me."

Once again she had taken him by surprise. He had expected they would make love, but not this soon.

"I'd love to, but what about my mum?"

"What about her? You're not thinking about making love to her are you?"

In the seven months he had been away she had become more worldly. Seven months ago she would never have said such a thing.

"Don't be silly. But what if she comes back?"

"Jack, she won't and even if she did, you're a grown man. She has to expect you are going to do the things grown men do."

He knew he was trapped and yet, he had to admit, he wanted to fuck her.

"All right, but we'd better be quick."

They went up to his room. In fifteen seconds she had removed her clothes and was helping him remove his.

"Come on Jack. Don't you fancy me? Don't you want to fuck me?"

He did, sort of, but once again his erect cock was telling him it was something more than sort of.

They started from where they'd left off, although there were subtle differences in their love-making. She noticed how he'd changed. Before he went to Canada he had engaged in foreplay but once they had started fucking he had concentrated on the matter in hand. Now he was paying more attention to her, stopping from time to time during their fucking to kiss her and to offer endearments.

He didn't notice - probably because Sophie had done the same -- how, when he came, she used her cunt muscles to milk him, or how she had used profanity to urge him on; neither of which had happened before he went to Canada.

During the next five days they made love eleven times and it would have been more if Jane had got her way.

Sitting on the train on his way to the Heavy Conversion Unit, where he would learn to fly a four-engined bomber, and thinking about his leave, Jack had to admit he had enjoyed it. Jane was good in bed; she did everything he wanted and more. She had been as adventurous as always and on the third night she had suggested anal sex. Her friend had told her she had enjoyed it when her husband had 'stuck it in my arse' and, 'besides, you can't get pregnant'. Based on Sophie's experience with her husband he wanted to reject her out of hand, but the notion excited him.

"I'm not sure. You might not like it."

"Jack, you ought to know me by now. If I don't like it, I'll tell you."

"Let me think about it."

The next night he fucked her in the arse. It wasn't easy; for all her bravado she was scared, both of failure and pain. The previous evening she had left the lubricant her friend had given her and had provided him with clear instructions about what he must do. The thought of sticking a finger up her arse didn't appeal to him, but he'd had his instructions and if he was prepared to stick his cock there, why not his finger?

They started as though they were going to make love conventionally. He played with her tits and clit while she sucked and stroked his cock. He stuck his cock in her cunt and was surprised to find how wet she was; if her arse was as wet as her cunt there would be no problem. She pointed to the night-stand and said,

"Get the lubricant. All you've got to do is put some in me and some on your cock."

She watched as he oiled his cock. It glistened, even in the dim light of the bedside-lamp. Satisfied, she turned over, got on her knees with her shoulders on the bed and presented her bum to him. For a moment he saw Sophie lying there, waiting to be violated by her husband and wanted to stop.

"Come on Jack; make sure you put enough in me..... but, be careful."

He took the bottle and poured some around and on her hole. He took his finger and coated it with oil and then, gently, inserted into her arse. She was tight; he could feel her sphincter resisting him. Gradually, as he worked his finger in and out, she started to relax and his finger sank further and further until it reached the second knuckle. He took his finger out, got her to hold her hole open and dribbled some oil directly into her arse.

"Jack, that's bloody cold."

It would be. It was winter; coal and coke were rationed and as there wasn't enough for the central heating, the bedroom was cold.

He sat back on his heels, bent his knees and mounted her. He had fucked her and Sophie doggie fashion before, but this time the angle was slightly different, he had to bend over further to get his cock in. He rubbed the underside of his cock against her now slick hole and then, very slowly and very carefully, tried to enter her. Her arse was tight, tighter even than her cunt had been. She grimaced, but said nothing about the pain.

"It's all right Jack, you can push a little harder."

He pushed and felt his cock slip past her sphincter. He was in; not all the way but far enough in that he could start to fuck her. He fucked her slowly, waiting for her to complain. Underneath him she could feel her hole expanding as he thrust deeper into her. It hurt to start but as she got used to him, she started to experience the sensations her friend had described to her. She was becoming excited; partly from the effect of his cock and partly from the knowledge that what they were doing was almost illicit. She could feel he was becoming excited, his thrusts were harder and longer, and that she too was starting to become excited. She picked up her right hand, sought and found her clit, and started to fuck herself with her fingers.

She stuck a finger in her cunt and could feel, through the lining of her cunt, his cock moving in her bum. She took her finger out and attacked her clit, rubbing it furiously as she sought to reach her climax. It didn't take long; she could feel him starting to come and not wanting to be disappointed, she rubbed harder and faster. They came; Jack first, his spunk squirting into her, flooding her bowels and she immediately after, rubbing her clit with one hand and with two fingers from the other in her cunt.

He fucked her arse twice more; each time it was easier and, each time, more enjoyable.

When he left to report to the Heavy Conversion Unit at RAF Wigsley she cried. She wasn't happy about him leaving, but most of all, she was worried he was about to became a bomber pilot. In spite of the secrecy about losses, the British people were aware bomber crews were suffering high casualty rates. She didn't want to be the girlfriend, fiancée or even the wife of a dead hero. At the most it got you a widow's pension, at the least - nothing. She had wanted to tell him about Simon, a naval lieutenant whom she'd met three months earlier at a dance in Bolton, but the last seven days had been wonderful, as memorable as the time they'd spent together just before he left for Canada.

She had met Simon when she'd gone to a dance with a girlfriend and halfway through the night, had been asked for a dance by an officer in a Royal Navy uniform. They'd danced for most of the night and she had accepted his invitation for a drink the next evening. He was in Bolton, doing something at a factory which was manufacturing something for the Navy. He had been evasive about the specifics and she hadn't been that interested. What had interested her was what he did when he wasn't in Bolton and she had been pleased to find that Lieutenant Simon Henderson was twenty-five, based in Grimsby, with a shore job which had something to do with the minesweeper fleet -- it sounded like radio or something -- and the only danger he faced was from the sporadic air raids on the port.

At first he had been almost proper, acting more like an escort than a boyfriend, and then, a month after they'd met, he invited her to Grimsby. She didn't know what to expect, but suspected he wasn't going to play the escort when he got her on his home ground. She was right. He had booked her a room at the Queen's Hotel and then taken her out to dinner. When they had finished dinner he had taken her back to the hotel for a drink and after plying her with drink he needn't have bought her, he took her up to her room and in his mind, had seduced her.

She had enjoyed it, partially because she was slightly drunk, but also because she hadn't had sex for four months and was becoming tired of pleasuring herself. She had continued to go out with him; not because she loved him, but because he was fun, here and as long as he was shore-based, not likely to die. In comparison with Jack, there was the promise of a future with Simon; maybe not a forever future, but a future.

There were occasions, after she and Simon had made love when she had feelings of guilt, both for betraying Jack and for making love to somebody she didn't love. Whenever she felt that way, she tried rationalise her actions. What Jack was doing was dangerous; eight hours of terror followed by five days of boredom with the chances of surviving a tour less than five per cent. On the other hand, unless he got posted, Simon was almost sure to survive the war. She loved Jack and how he made her feel when he was fucking her, but there was no future for them.

When, three months later, she told him she was getting engaged to Simon, she sat and cried all evening.

Chapter 12

His first posting to a heavy conversion unit was like a performance of Fred Karno's army. He had reported to the Heavy Conversion Unit at RAF Wigsley only to find they had twice as many pilots as they needed and half the number of navigators. It wasn't all bad news as he got another seven day pass and spent most of it in bed with or, if not in bed, then in Jane. His second posting, to RAF Swinderby, was more successful. There were the same number of pilots as navigators and enough planes for everyone.

For Jack, HCU was more of the same with the exception of the planes. The early model Wellingtons and clapped out Stirlings used by the HCU were bigger and faster than the Ansons he had flown in Canada, but the principles were the same. You took off; tried to find out where you were, pretended to know if you weren't sure, tried to avoid the other planes also wandering about lost and then tried to find your way back to your airfield. If, by chance, you found your own airfield, you never referred to it as being lucky. It was even more confusing at night since you couldn't see the other planes. Some crews never got the opportunity to be buried in some corner of a foreign field, their war ended by a collision, faulty equipment or the most likely, pilot error.

Crewing up had been an exercise in guesswork. How could you select a group of men who were going to be responsible for your life? Was age a criterion? Were older men better risks - even if older was twenty-three or four -- or was it the firmness of their handshake? When they'd finally assembled he had no idea why he had chosen them, or why they had chosen him - other than they seemed to fit.

Typically they were a mish-mash of nationalities. His rear gunner, bomb aimer and wireless operator were English, his flight engineer a Scotsman, his navigator a Canadian and his mid-upper gunner, an Australian. He worried about them. It was easy to be efficient when there were no ack-ack guns trying to blast you out of the sky or fighters trying to riddle you with bullets; but how would they perform when it was the real thing?

They were posted on the ninth of August, 1943 to 362 Squadron, a Lancaster squadron flying the workhorse of Bomber Command, based at RAF Langton in Lincolnshire. He had flown a Lancaster at the Lancaster finishing school, but these were the real thing; battle scarred veterans of the bomber offensive. He arrived at Langton just as the air war was starting to heat up with Lancasters and, to a lesser extent, Halifaxes replacing the Sterling and the twin-engined Wellington. The RAF was bombing Germany in increasing numbers, using more and more planes and dropping more and more bombs. His first mission was to Cologne; his second was the raid on the Peenemunde V-rocket experimental station.

Over the next six months they bombed Germany on a further twenty-seven occasions, including nine trips to Berlin at what was the height of the Battle of Berlin. They had been lucky. Whether a crew survived or died was mainly a matter of luck. Good and experienced crews lasted longer, but in the end, the odds were against them. Some were lucky and managed to bail out and spend the rest of the war as prisoners but the majority died, either blown up in the air or a worse fate, were trapped in their aircraft as it plunged to earth. They had started flying in B, Baker but on their eleventh mission, the undercarriage had failed to deploy on landing, even though they had tried to lower it manually. The plane had spun around on hitting the ground; a wing-tip had dug into the earth but fortunately had broken off before it could cause the plane to cart-wheel.

Their next plane and the one they were still flying, was Z, Zulu. It was a new plane; a Mark III, with a higher ceiling and capable of carrying heavier bomb loads than B, Baker. After their twelfth mission Jack had been promoted to Flying Officer and on their twenty-first mission he had been promoted again, this time to Flight Lieutenant. Why he had been promoted he wasn't totally sure. He liked to think it was his flying ability, but realised it didn't take a genius to work out that officers, senior to him, also died in raids and someone had to replace them. Still, the increase in pay was welcome. Their twenty-sixth mission, just after the New Year, was a raid on Brunswick and was almost their last.

The flight to the target had been difficult as the German radar system had improved and the fighters seemed to have a telepathic ability to locate bombers. They had watched as sixteen planes exploded or trailed down on fire. On their run up to the target they'd been hit by flak, leaving the port outer engine useless. Jack had feathered the engine to reduce the drag and for the first hour of the return flight, had fought to maintain height. The Lancaster could fly on three engines but for some reason, on this occasion, he was having difficulty maintaining even sixteen thousand feet.

Flying below the main stream was a problem as the stream improved a plane's chances and, while flying below the stream might work on occasion, mostly it made the straggler a sitting duck. This time it was the 'rule' rather than the 'exception'. A German night-fighter, a twin-engined Ju88 heading for home after an abortive search, had spotted Jack's plane against the half-moon. The pilot had banked and climbed in an effort to approach the Lancaster from behind. As he got closer he noticed the plane was flying more slowly than usual and, since it was below normal flying height, was probably in trouble.