The Island Ch. 01

'Bobbie the drag queen' was really just a 'stocking filler' that the show's director used to fill in a set if a performer was tired or unavailable for some reason, which usually meant drunk. It was not part of the regular production. Robert had reservations about performing as Bobbie because 'she' played with his psyche in a disturbing way. Robert was a little annoyed that Craig kept referring to him as Bobbie. Robert would ask Craig to stop once he knew him better.

He turned on the water in one of the showers and let it run for about five minutes before it changed from rusty orange to a clear bright stream. The soap was hard and difficult to lather but the water was warmed by the sun and then turned cooler as he luxuriated under the shower. The GI issue towel was scratchy but it felt wonderful to wash off the salt and grime from his body.

Robert shaved the few wisps of hair from his chin and cleaned his teeth with tooth powder. The toothpaste in the commissary had all turned and was useless. He put on fresh underwear, dungarees, t-shirt, socks and his new shoes and was ready to face the new world.

Robert's Timex had amazingly survived the crash and all those hours being tossed around the Pacific and he saw that it was five minutes to six so he made his way over to the mess hall.

The albatross stew was surprisingly good. It was fortified with breadfruit and canned carrots and peas. Steve Ford had made his famous cornbread. There were condiments and corn oil spread which Robert had earlier mistaken for margarine.

Craig Bowmen, John Fitzgibbons and Steve Ford bombarded Robert with questions about post war life in the USA and they of course wanted to know what had happened to their favourite movie stars. Robert answered their questions as best he could and countered with questions of his own, asking how the four men survived on the island, which they gladly answered. They were justifiably proud of how they maintained a good standard of living on the deserted island.

What if came down to was mostly hard work. They religiously maintained the machinery and equipment they needed to survive and kept meticulous records as to what they had used and what remained in the storehouses. They were fortunate that when the island was abandoned by the military, all the stores were left behind, if it didn't have wings or wheels it stayed put unless it was classified.

Robert had seen newsreels of US military surplus being pushed into the ocean or simply abandoned as being no longer required. It was more effort than it was worth to tranship the surplus back to the USA. Harris Field on Mirrocau Island was a fine example.

As usually happens when strangers meet and are required to spend time together, talk turned to family. Craig Bowen and Steve Ford were single and were only nineteen when they were shipwrecked. John Fitzgibbons was newly wed when the war broke out. He passed around a creased and faded picture of a pretty, chubby young woman wearing a wedding dress. He said that he knew that she would wait for him but you could tell by his tone that he really believed that wasn't the case. He looked conspiratorially at Steve Ford who returned his gaze. Ray Millward had stayed silent and surly through most of the meal but he loosened up as he drank.

The ingenious sailors had learned how to ferment coconut juice and made coconut beer and a spirit they called coconut rum. Robert didn't really like the taste of the rum but it certainly had a kick.

"I bet that bitch will remarry as soon as they pay out my insurance," Ray said bitterly, referring to his wife.

"I heard she was putting it around before I even went missing so you can bet she couldn't wait to have me classified as presumed dead. I heard she'd open her legs for a pair of black market nylons," Ray said through gritted teeth.

Craig and Steve steered the conversation away from girlfriends, wives and lovers and back to life on the island, they had seen Ray's melancholy quickly turn to anger when he was drinking.

"There's no point talking about home. All it does is make us unhappy and disconsolate. We make the best of what we've got until we're rescued; then we'll talk about home," Ray growled.

"Kid, I'm not sure if you're good luck or bad. You raised the hopes of my men who think that rescue is not far away but I'm a pragmatic man. We'll remain extra vigilant for the next week or two and keep our signal fires dry and ready but I ain't optimistic," Ray glared at Robert.

"You may be our salvation or you may be an albatross around our necks. You men have your overnight lookout watches so make sure you stay awake and vigilant," Ray said to his crew.

"You can have a day or two to settle in then we're going to have to find something useful for you to do. On this island we all earn our keep, I don't brook no malingerers," Ray turned back to Robert.

Robert walked back to his quarters alongside Craig Bowen feeling a little despondent.

"Don't worry about the Chief; he gets grouchy in his cups. You'll do fine Bobbie and anyway we ain't got much longer left on this rock," Craig kicked along a piece of dried coral.

"Hey Craig... about you calling me Bobbie... can you... ah never mind, forget it," Robert was about to bring up the subject but changed his mind.

Robert went into his Quonset and stripped down to underpants and t-shirt and sat with his head in his hands for a while. He was glad that he hadn't died in the plane crash or drowned in the ocean but he didn't want to waste years of his life on this island like these four men. It was obvious after only one day that they were dysfunctional but what else could be expected?

Robert decided to confront Craig after all and ask him to stop calling him Bobbie; he didn't need to explain why, he would just say that he didn't like the abbreviation.

Robert padded through the soft warm sand to Craig's quarters and saw a soft light coming from an open window. He wasn't sure of privacy protocols on the island so he went up to the window with the intent of whispering to Craig. What he saw stopped him cold and shocked him.

The window overlooked Craig's bed and he was lying on it naked with a bedlamp providing just enough light so he could look at the periodical he was holding. The periodical in question was a dog-eared copy of Eyeful magazine. It was open to the centrefold of a woman lying on a couch in a provocative pose. She was dressed in a black and red satin and lace basque, wearing full makeup and high heels, displaying her long legs sheathed in silky black nylons with her pubis shrouded in frilly red panties.

Craig was slowly stroking his erect penis.

Robert knew that he should just back away quietly but he was mesmerised. He looked at the cheesecake picture of the pretty woman in the magazine then back at Craig's chubby torso, his throbbing member standing upright from his crotch as he stroked it softly and slowly.

Robert felt himself becoming erect and he put his hand down there to move his erection into a more comfortable position but as soon as he touched his flesh he was filled with wanton desire. He knew what he was doing was wrong but he couldn't help himself.

Robert freed his cock from his underwear and stroked it in time with Craig, looking alternately at the women in the sexy lingerie and Craig's pulsing penis which was now secreting droplets of dewy precum. Robert bit his lip to stifle a gasp as his own cock began to dribble pre-ejaculate which he used to lubricate his shaft, exactly as Craig was doing only inches away from him.

Robert was not homosexual, he had been with women, albeit not always successfully, but seeing this young man stroke his magnificent manhood only inches away from him invoked a sense of arousal that he had no choice but to gratify.

Craig's penis began to quiver and he began to stroke it harder and faster. Robert mimicked his actions and bit down harder on his lip as he felt his orgasm getting close.

"Mhg...oh... Karen! Karen!" Craig cried.

A spume of creamy semen erupted from Craig's penis and spattered on his chest. Another followed. Then torrents of milky spend splattered on his soft plump belly as his penis erupted in geysers of hot, creamy seed.

Robert's cock erupted at the same time and he ejaculated his load onto the sand as an enormous orgasm washed over him. He had to hold onto the window ledge for support. It was difficult experiencing such divine pleasure without divulging his presence and he tried not to gasp too loudly. He fell to his knees and drained the last of his ejaculate onto the ground, his whole body shuddering with the intensity of his climax.

Robert stayed on his knees, breathing deeply as he scattered sand over his semen then he crawled away, not getting to his feet until he was at the door to his Quonset hut. He knew what he had done was wrong but too much had happened today; there was too much going on in his head for him to stop and try to psychoanalyse it. He crawled into bed and fell into a deep sleep.

His dreams were interwoven with facts and fantasy. He relived the plane crash and the hours spent clinging to the trunk on the tortuous seas. He relived his days working as a waiter and busboy in New York restaurants so he could pay his way through drama school. He relived the time when his father caught him dressed in his sister's clothes putting on a performance for his sister and her girlfriends. His father had taken Robert into the kitchen had beaten him. Mary Spencer, his sister's best friend, had consoled him, hugging him to her. He had become tumescent and Mary had put her hand under his skirt and stroked him until he filled his sister's panties with his essence. She had sworn him to secrecy and it had been his main masturbatory fantasy until he finally lost his virginity.

Then the recurring nightmare started.

William Brindle, the Director of the first USO show he had worked on came to him with his idea for a skit that Robert could perform as a standby number. Bobbie would be dressed as Lauren Bacall and sing the song How Little We Know with a big reveal at the end of the song when she would whip off her wig and reveal herself as Robert.

Robert had done a little drag in drama school. He had the figure, looks and voice to carry it off. Dressed enfemme with a wig and makeup he was completely passable but he was never really comfortable doing it. He presumed it had something to do with being punished by his father for dressing like a girl and then the incident right after with Mary Spencer. He psychologically linked dressing as a woman with both punishment and pleasure.

Regardless, Robert had taken William up on his offer because as an aspiring performer you never said no to an opportunity to appear on stage. The showgirls had fun helping him with the character. They went to wardrobe and found a shoulder length brunette wig which was styled into a wave on the right side then started to curve at the corner of his eyebrow and ending sloping downward at his cheekbone just like Lauren Bacall. They taught him how to mimic her makeup he worked on her voice and mannerisms. He worked with the orchestra to perfect the song.

There were plenty of dresses in wardrobe that fitted him and with the help of prosthetic breasts to fill the cups of his bra, 'Bobbie' impersonated Lauren Bacall almost perfectly. There was no need to announce to the audience that a Lauren Bacall impersonator was the next act. As soon as 'Bobbie Bingham', as she was billed, came out on stage it was obvious. At the end of the set when Bobbie ripped off her wig the audience was always astonished and then amused.

Robert would be notified at the beginning of each performance if Bobbie Bingham would be preforming so he had time to transform but the act really was only a standby and used sparingly as required.

In his nightmare Robert recalled a show last year in West Berlin where he had left the stage after a successful appearance as Bobbie and made his way back to the dressing room which was empty because the rest of ensemble were on stage for the encore.

William Brindle was drunk and he came into the dressing room with a bottle of scotch and locked the door behind him.

"You were wonderful tonight Bobbie, here have a drink," William poured a large amount of scotch into tumbler and offered it to Bobbie.

"No thanks Bill, I just want to get out of costume, I have a lot of work to do after the show," Bobbie replied and was about to remove her wig.

William grabbed Bobbie and pulled her into his arms, pressing himself against her. His face inches from hers, his breath smelled of alcohol.

"Don't be ungrateful Bobbie. I got you this part. You owe me! You want to be a glorified stagehand for the rest of your time in the USO or do you want to become a full-time performer? Your choice doll," William's face closed in on Bobbie's and she felt helpless and unable to resist.

This is where Robert always woke up shivering and sweating. He had blacked out any recollection of what had happened in that dressing room and had no inclination to restore the lost memories.

William Brindle left the production a few weeks later but Bobbie Bingham's act impersonating Lauren Bacall remained on the bill as a filler. Robert rehearsed the part once a week to maintain continuity and performed the act when required but he was never comfortable dressed as Bobbie and couldn't wait to get out drag as soon as the performance was over.

Robert awoke from the nightmare just as William Bridle's lips were about to touch Bobbie's full, lipsticked lips which were formed into an inviting pout. Robert was drenched in sweat but he was shivering. He was also painfully erect.

He got out of bed and drank three glasses of water, urinated and went back to bed. The rest of his sleep was dreamless.

The next morning Robert was awakened by a bar of brilliant light streaming into his eyes through the window. It took him a little while to realise where he was and the circumstances that had brought him here. He groaned and rolled over, attempting to go back to sleep, when there was a pounding on his door.

"Wake up sleepyhead! The guys have found something on the beach!" Craig called excitedly.

Robert got out of bed and hurriedly pulled on his clothes and went outside where he found Craig circling like an excited puppy.

"Come on! Come On! Let's see what they found!" he called breathlessly and skittered across the runway, down the path to the beach.

Robert followed behind.

They came out onto the beach and Robert was amazed to see that the pounding surf and huge waves had mellowed into a beautiful flat azure sea with little wavelets tickling the shoreline. Above the high water mark Ray Millward, John Fitzgibbons, and Steve Ford were inspecting a small pile of flotsam. As he and Craig drew closer Robert recognised the steamer trunks and suitcases from the USO show. It was part of the wreckage from the C-47.

"Well this shit is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine," Ray Millward growled as Robert and Craig approached.

"Clothes, costumes, shoes and shit... not even a pack of cigarettes," Ray grumbled as he threw the contents of the trunks onto the sand.

"You let us down again kid," Ray glared at Robert.

Robert was about to retort. Why was it his fault if the wreckage from the plane was of no use to them? The look in Ray's eyes made him think otherwise and he held his tongue.

"Hey Chief. It ain't Bobbie's fault if this stuff is useless," Craig said exactly what Robert was thinking.

"Is that so Seaman Bowen? Well you and your girlfriend can just pack this shit up and get it off my beach, you know I don't warrant trash on my beachhead Seaman Bowen," Ray fixed Craig with a harsh stare.

Robert cringed at being referred to as Craig's girlfriend even though he knew that Ray only meant it as an insult.

"You two can take this pile of shit to the Q store and you can go through it later. See kid, I told you we'd find something useful for you to do," Ray grinned sardonically.

"John, let's you and I adjourn for chow. Seaman Ford, make the coffee and get breakfast ready. You two shitheels can join us when you get rid of this crap," Ray barked his orders and marched off down the beach with John and Steve in close formation.

"Is he always so grumpy?" Robert asked as he began to gather the items that men had scattered along the beach.

"Hey, he's the Chief; what do you expect?" Craig replied, picking up a tuxedo jacket from the sand.

"Hey, what do you think Bobbie? Should we dress for dinner tonight?" Craig grinned as he turned to face Robert.

Wearing the tuxedo jacket with his dungarees Craig looked like a half dressed penguin. Robert was holding a peach coloured satin petticoat in his hand self-consciously.

"You'd need to find something more suitable than that," Craig grinned nodding at the petticoat.

Robert blushed and threw the garment in the trunk.

It took Robert and Craig three trips to bring all the flotsam to the Q store even using a handcart to lug it. When they finally got to the mess hall the others had finished breakfast and Ray and John sat drinking coffee. Steve Ford was on lookout duty, stationed on lookout hill, vigilant for a rescue flight.

There was corn fritters, bananas, and papaya for breakfast and Robert and Craig tucked in.

"After breakfast you can go through all that shit we found on the beach kid. Bring anything you find useful or valuable to me. Craig, the second generator needs its three-monthly service," Ray grunted around his coffee cup.

"My name is Robert, not kid and I'm not part of your little navy. I'm a civilian so I'd like you to stop treating me like some swab jockey," Robert seethed.

"Well look at you kid, using the naval vernacular like some shellback. Well excuse me for not being polite. Please mister Bingham, will you be so kind as to please inspect our newly obtained chattels and see if there is anything of use and then please bring it to my attention...please," Ray closed in on him, his nose almost touching Robert's.

"Glad to help Chief," Robert glared back at Ray who broke into a malicious grin and backed away.

"Now that we all have our schedules sorted maybe we can get to work. John, come with me. Let's walk the rest of the beach and see if anything of use has washed up from that wrecked C-47 other than ladies underpanties and trombones," Ray said sarcastically.

Craig went off to service the generator and Robert returned to the Q store to go through the trunks they had salvaged. He recognised most of them. There were crates full of props that would be of little use but he broke them open, organised the contents and stowed them on the shelves.

A few musical instruments had survived but were soaked in sea water which would soon rust and corrode them. Robert fetched fresh water and submerged the instruments in it and put them in the sun to dry. Those that needed lubrication would get it once dry. There was a guitar, a trombone, a saxophone and a clarinet. He didn't know if any of the men on the island played instruments but if any of them did he bet they would be happy to have them.

Robert played a decent blues guitar but he wondered if the Gibson J-45 he had put aside would survive. The salt water would not treat the Adirondack spruce top and high quality mahogany back and sides kindly nor the metal furniture such as the frets and machine heads. The guitar was still in its case and hadn't been totally immersed in salt water like the other instruments.

The garments had fared better. They had been packed in watertight steamer trucks like the one he had clung to throughout his ordeal on the ocean. He opened them and divided the contents into men's and women's clothing and costumes. The streamers contained everything that the troupe would need to put on a show, there were no corner stores where the USO performed.