Tonight was one
of those nights that
in the past few months Second Lieutenant Theodore Stevenson had come to
describe
as quiet: although when was it ever truly quiet on the Western Front?
He could
still hear the spasmodic rat-a-tat of distant machine gun fire; the
occasional
whoosh of a sniper’s bullet; and the muffled screams of agony and
despair from a
lone brave soldier lost in No-Man’s Land. But mostly what the
lieutenant heard
as he strode along the trenches at night was the gentle rhythm of a
soldier’s
snore or the paper-rustle of a letter either being read (and re-read)
or being written.
But as the
lieutenant turned the sharp bend into the next trench, what he now
could hear was
both unexpected and rather unfamiliar.
At first, the
officer was unsure of the source of what he could hear. Was it the
scurry of
rats? Was it coming from a brave wounded soldier determined to smother
his
moans? Was it perhaps the slap
of a domino
onto a flat board? For these were
what it sounded most like.
But it was none
of these things. As the lieutenant could tell as his eyes adjusted to
the
gloom, the slatted walls of the trench he’d entered were lined with the
shadows
of squatting soldiers in the midst of which and for their fellows’
entertainment
were two men actively indulging in horseplay—and such queer horseplay
at that!
One man had
pressed himself against the trench wall, his britches about his ankles
and an
arse that would be brazenly on parade to any man that wished to admire
it,
except that it was immediately obscured by another man’s arse, also
bare, that
was jerking back and forth upon it with an urgent machine-gun rhythm.
And the
lieutenant was as sure as he could be that the man whose arse was most
on
display was giving the other (hidden) arse a right old imperial
buggering.
Theo wasn’t at
all sure what he should do. He’d always been aware that such horsing
around
went on, of course, as it had at his old public school; although not
between him
and his school-chums. Theo had heard tell of how a senior boy or
prefect might use
his prerogative to take advantage of the prettiest fags. However much
Theo might
have been tempted by the pleasures of such horse-play, the opportunity
had
never come his way before and, in any case, he was betrothed to darling
Susanne: a bonny lass from Kincardineshire whose family was both
well-connected
and long-acquainted with his own. Although she was as prim and matronly
in her
youth as a woman of more senior years might be and possessed of a laugh
more
like that of a horse than a demure young lady, she was the lass to whom
he was content
to one day be able to call his own.
“Would you like
a ride, sir?” asked one of the soldiers crouched in the shadow of the
trench,
his face lit up by the smouldering embers of his hand-rolled cigarette.
His
East London consonants were like gravel in the lieutenant’s ears. “I’m
sure Dobby
won’t mind. He’s a champion for a buggering, sir.”
“I’m not sure
if I should…” Theo protested, mostly with respect to his elevated rank
and
class. Was it right for a man of his status to sully his member in the
darker
confines of an artisan’s most private orifice?
“You don’t have
to worry about the rest of us, sir,” continued the soldier, gesturing
towards
his grinning comrades. “We none of us mind, sir. Not one bit of it.
We’ve all
had our turn at Dobby’s arse. And he’s had a good rogering in all of
ours.
We’ve all been pals a long time, so we know what’s what…”
“We do that,
sir,” said another soldier squatting beside the first, face shadowed by
a steel
helmet and fist gripping his erect penis. “We all come from the
Brickworks Lane
down in Bethnal Green. When Kitchener came a-calling we all signed up
together,
we did. We’re the Brickworks Lane Pals and together we’re thicker than
thieves
…”
“…Not that any
one of us is less than honest, you understand, sir,” said a third
soldier whose
voice grated equally as much the first two soldiers. “We all love an
ale in the
New Inn, followed by jellied eel and mash, and then a bit of rough and
tumble
afore heading back to the missis…”
“…Or the
sweetheart, sir,” chimed in a fourth soldier.
“But we all
relish
a sausage between the cheeks or prime brown sauce on the purple crown…”
“Don’t you do
also, sir?” asked the first soldier.
“Well, of
course, private,” Theo said to emphasise his superior rank. “What man
wouldn’t?
But this is a war. We’ve got Huns to kill. Fritz could catch us all
with our
pants down.”
“Not before
we’ve got Fritz’s bollocks between our teeth and given him the most
brutal
buggering a Hun could ever suffer.”
“Come on, sir,”
said the first soldier. “Breezy’s just about shed his load—look at all
that
fertile seed he’s shed on the muddy Flemish soil!—and knowing Dobby:
after only
two cocks in the arse and one knob in the mouth, he’ll still be begging
for a
buggering.”
“Please, sir,”
said Private Dobson himself who was standing to attention in front of
the
lieutenant with his britches removed and his penis proud and erect and
bent
slightly to the left. “I ain’t never had quality up my jacksie. Officer
spunk
is all a man needs before he clambers over the top.”
“It’d be the
sending off that Dobby needs,” said the soldier known as Breezy who was
now
wiping a pale trail of semen off the tip of his flaccid penis. “It
won’t be many
more days till the next push, sir. You can’t deny Dobby a shot of best
quality
gentlemen’s cream.”
From the way
Breezy was describing it, Theo felt that it would indeed be churlish to
deny a
soldier what he desired: especially when the throbbing of his erect
penis was
telling him that this pleasure would be shared at least equally between
them.
But Theo had never fucked a man before. He’d dallied with doxies and
strumpets,
but what man hadn’t? A few shillings was all it cost to relieve his
inner tubes
of the seed that the Holy Bible forbid a man from wasting on barren
soil. But a
man’s arse was a different matter. Even dallying with a trollop’s
buttocks with
whip and cane and a satisfying release between battered and
blue-striped cheeks
was a lesser pleasure than that of a man’s brawny arse.
“For King and
Country, then,” said Theo.
“For the Empire
where the Sun never sets,” echoed Breezy who handed the lieutenant a
flask of
rum from which to sip.
“For God and
England’s Glory,” said another soldier.
“For Pete’s
sake, sir,” gasped Private Dobson. “Give an honest soldier the
honest-to-God
buggering his arse deserves!”
“Gladly!” said
the lieutenant as he pulled down his britches and button-front shorts
to reveal a
penis of average size but with an above-average appetite for a willing
soldier’s
arse-hole.
Although this
wasn’t to be Theo’s last or even most enjoyable buggery of a serving
soldier,
it was surely the one whose memory would be etched the most deeply. The
other
soldiers had prepared Dobby’s arse well for Theo’s ingress, as a fine
sliver of
moist semen coated the puckered anal lips, but just to be sure Private
Briggs, the
first soldier who’d spoken to him, moistened the officer’s penis with
his saliva
applied by tongue and mouth, but expertly enough that the lieutenant
didn’t
prematurely let loose his seed between the gaps in the private’s
rotting teeth.
And then the lieutenant delved straight and true into Dobby’s arsehole
with the
supportive cheers of his new East London chums.
There was at
first more resistance than Theo had anticipated. The trollops on which
he’d
practised his anal incursions had tricks of the trade that better
facilitated
smooth entry and indeed theirs were arses between wider thighs than
that of an
honest Englishman. But the earlier struggle when his penis ventured in
inch by
inch was worth the reward of a man’s cheeks brushing against the
verdant brush
of his pubic hairs as he gained total penetration and Dobby grunted in
gratitude at the lieutenant’s every thrust. And when Theo finally burst
forth
his semen deep inside Dobby’s rectum (and perhaps even his colon), the
soldier
obligingly responded with a spurt of thick satisfying manly goo onto
the wooden
slats that reinforced the trench wall.
“Well done,
sir!” said Private Briggs who patted the lieutenant on the back.
“I’ll lick you
clean, Dobby!” volunteered another soldier who knelt between Private
Dobson’s
hairy legs and applied his tongue to the puckered hole which a moment
before
had wholly accommodated Theo’s erect penis.
“Would you like
to bugger another of the Brickworks Lane Pals, sir?” asked the soldier
known as
Breezy. “We’d all of us consider it an honour, sir.”
“I don’t think
I have the get-up-and-go,” admitted Lieutenant Stevenson. “I’m well and
truly
fagged.”
“If you’d like
a buggering, sir,” said the indefatigable Private Dobson, whose penis
was once
more erect and willing, “then there’s not a man amongst us who wouldn’t
be
willing to offer you friendly satisfaction.”
“We’ve all seen
your arse, sir,” proffered another soldier. “I’ve not seen a more
comely pair
of cheeks since I was first apprenticed at the steelworks. And there
are a lot
of fine bare-arsed men at the furnace, sir, I can tell you!”
“They ain’t no
good at decorum at the factory, sir” echoed another. “It’s fearful hot
near
them flames. And the sight of all them muscles and swinging cocks give
many a
youngster his first yearning for fulsome comradely affection.”
The lieutenant
gazed affectionately at the soldiers who were so desirous to bugger
him, but
although at the time there was nothing he wanted more, he was conscious
that
rank and class dictated otherwise. It was one thing for an officer to
fuck his
men. It was another thing altogether for the officer to let an enlisted
man
fuck him. Theo resolved at that moment to wait until he found another
commissioned officer or a non-military man of his class for the
enactment of
that pleasure. Perhaps a major or colonel would be willing to plough
his furrow
and scatter seed on his ornamental bush.
This wasn’t to
be the last time that Lieutenant Stevenson tarried in the company of
the
Brickworks Lane Pals. Indeed, there was little much else to look
forward to as
he toured the trenches and sheltered from the occasional pounding of
German
shells. Only inclement weather or his officer’s duties could keep Theo
away
from the delights on offer that heralded from the mysterious Dark
Continent
known as East London where the cockney accent and accompanying customs
were, in
truth, more exotic to him than those offered by any Indian wallah or
African
kaffir.
In the weekly
letter Theo scribbled to darling Susanne, in which he repeated his
desire for
swift matrimony once the Boche was bloodied and beaten, Theo let slip
no hint
that he found more pleasure in the almost daily buggering of enlisted
men than
in the thought of carnal knowledge with his future wife. Indeed, he was
already
plotting how he might continue to enjoy the pleasures of male company
while
Susanne diverted herself with the mysterious pleasures of crochet and
reading
passages from the Holy Bible. If he served his duty by providing his
wife with
children, surely her only objection would be whether such extramarital
activity
was consonant with a dignified and respectable life.
The men that
Theo buggered were each as grateful as Dobson for a good pounding. And
where
they were less willing to bend over and take an officer’s cock up the
arse,
they made sure that their superior officer’s penis was dripping with
enlisted
men’s saliva and as big and bulging as any cock should be after a
fellating.
Theo was aware that he was given special privileges denied the rest of
the
Brickworks Lane Pals. The camaraderie that bonded them included a sense
of
fairness where every arse buggered belonged to a man who would bugger
his pal’s
arse with exactly the same enthusiasm. And every cock sucked belonged
to a man
whose lips would suck his fellows’: however rank and filthy and often
not
especially big. But Lieutenant Stevenson was bound by no such
convention. He
could fuck who he wanted for as long as he chose to and be fellated by
one, two
or ever three enlisted men before his cock thrust once again into a
private’s
arse.
The men were
all grateful for the privilege of having been buggered by a gentleman
of worth:
as indeed they ought to be. Only in the public lavatories of London or
in the
dark alleys about the Railway Stations of a great metropolis would a
man of
Theo’s quality ever consider the option of fucking a man of such low
rank and
estimation. And Theo was conscious that his arse was reserved only for
a man of
greater estimation than himself. He would gladly surrender his arse to
General
Haig or General Rawlinson if either fine gentleman should so desire.
Nevertheless,
there were other matters which added urgency to Theo’s daily buggering
and made
the pleasure of releasing his semen on an enlisted man’s buttocks the
more
sweet: and this was the creeping deadline towards the Big Push that the
generals Theo admired so much were planning. And, patriotic Englishman
that he
was, Theo never doubted for one moment that the Chiefs of Staff knew
exactly
what was needed and were mindful to the minutest detail of the cost
that would
be inflicted on the nation’s finest if all did not go well.
The Boche were
nervous too: Theo was sure of it. Private Breezy got a bullet which
ripped off
his ear and jaw and coated the trench walls with moist chunks of his
brain.
Another trench of soldiers, known as the Lime Street Pals and all from
the
North-West city of Liverpool, were victim to a well-aimed or just lucky
shell
that killed five of them and left the survivors in such a state that
even if
they were willing to be buggered, a chap would have to close his eyes
to not
feel nausea at the sight of their injuries. No man wants to fuck a man
whose
face has been blown half away however cherubic the proffered arse.
“It’s going to
happen, old chap!” said Major ‘Blinky’ Armistead. “First we bomb the
Boche to
buggery. Then we’ll saunter across No-Man’s Land, arm-in-arm and
singing hymns
to the Almighty, to pick up the pieces. They tell me that all we’ll
find will
be a few knee-caps and tin helmets…”
“All with a
spike in the middle of them…” echoed Lieutenant Baggins.
“…And if
there’s any still alive we’ll spike them
with our bayonets!” agreed Captain Boswell.
The officers
chuckled. It was indeed going to be a moment to relish. The Western
Front would
be breached. The Hun would be humiliated. And the war would be over
without
ever needing help at all from the Yanks from the other side of the
Atlantic
Ocean, who couldn’t even make shells that fit the required
specifications.
Before the
Push, there was the Bombardment. Five days of it! Shell after shell
after
shell. As Theo pumped into the Brickworks Lane Pals’ bums, he could
imagine,
with the ear-shattering explosion of each shell, that a Fritz or a Hans
or a
Wilhelm was being scattered to the winds just as his sperm splattered
over the
private’s backside and trickled down his hairy legs. But even Dobby’s
arse
served as only momentary respite from the anxiety that even the most
patriotic
soul would feel as he wondered how much the armed might of the Second
Reich was
being reduced by British gunners using American shells and relying on
aerial
reconnaissance by pilots who rarely completed more than one tour of
duty.
But the days
passed by even though sleep had become fleeting and superficial after
the
reciprocal pounding of Allied Artillery on English, British and
Imperial
ear-drums.
And then, at
long last, it was time for the final tipple of rum before Second
Lieutenant
Stevenson assumed his duty as an officer and blew the fateful whistle
that
signalled his men and, of course, himself, that it was time to go over
the top.
Already the lieutenant was speculating how he might earn a Victoria
Cross or at
least an Honorary Mention. And then promotion and an armful of stripes
was
surely all to come his way. His fear was that the push would be so much
more of
a push-over now that the Hun had been blown to smithereens that few
medals and
fewer citations would be awarded for what would surely be a glorious
day in the
history of the British Empire.
However, what
happened next resembled Theo’s imagining in no particular at all. There
was no
medal to be won and certainly no easy victory. The lieutenant’s
experience of
the great battle which would humble the Hun and bring an early victory
was over
well within a hundred feet of the British trenches and not near enough
at all
to the still-intact barbed wire of the German lines. It was Fritz who
was
laughing the loudest as his machine guns harvested the brave British
soldiers
in their orderly lines as they stumbled across in broad daylight into
the hail
of deadly gunfire that within minutes consigned to the field hospital
or, for
the lucky ones, the grave the entire male population of many English
towns and
villages. Instead of harvesting wheat, the Blists Hill Pals had
themselves
become the harvest of future farmers. Instead of digging coal, the
Cwmbach Boys
were blown to mere ashes on the battlefield.
And so too were
the Brickworks Lane Pals.
Second
Lieutenant Stevenson received a bullet in the shoulder that a less
brave man
than he would have considered enough to retire from the battlefield if
retreat
were not exactly as hazardous as pushing forward. Another that
shattered his
knee-cap and would leave a permanent memory of this day for the rest of
his
life was enough to ensure that all hopes for heroism and medals for
Distinguished Service would never be fulfilled. He fell down in the
mud,
churned up by many days of British Bombardment and German Retaliation,
and was
literally unable to move forward, backward or in any direction
whatsoever.
And all around
him, the bullets were whistling about: any one of which would absolve
sweetest
Susanna of her obligations. And not just machine gun fire, but shells
which
landed in larger numbers than Theo was aware a humbled German Army
could
launch. Although the shells were landing several tens of yards away
from where
the lieutenant had fallen into the mud, the impact was enough to shake
the
ground around him and jar the nerves in his fresh bloody wounds.
And then a
shell fell just within ten yards of Theo. The blast threw him back and
this
wasn’t a recoil from his body, but one from the elements that lifted
and threw
back his body as if it was a mere child’s doll.
Theo’s wasn’t
the only body thrown rudely about. Theo’s eyes—now soaked with blood
from collision
with a tin helmet that had glanced across his brow—could just about
make out
the remains of a soldier who’d been at the heart of the shell’s impact.
His
clothes had been torn from him as had his limbs from his body, his head
from
his neck and his organs from his ribs. A metal dog tag fell within a
foot of
Theo: close enough that he could reach out despite the agony such a
seemingly
natural motion wrought on his damaged shoulder and pick it up.
The dog tag had
survived the impact far better than its owner and the printed name was
clear
even to Theo as he struggled to keep his eyes open against the blood
flowing down
his forehead.
M.
Dobson
it read. And
together with this information was the
Service Number and
poor old Dobby’s religion. Like any decent man, Dobby recognised the
King as
being the Head of the Church.
And there was
more.
Amongst the
bits and pieces thrown asunder was a hand cut off from the arm, a boot
with the
bloody stub of an ankle and several bits and pieces of a person’s guts,
such as
the unravelling intestines and a clump of foul-smelling offal.
But not every
part of Dobby’s remains was so undistinguishable. There, just a yard
from him
and destined to remain for the day or so until Quaker stretcher-bearers
would
take him to refuge was the part of Private Dobson that the lieutenant
would
normally have remembered the most fondly but in this case was the
reason why
Theo would be known as a very queer fellow when it came to respecting
the need
a fellow’s cock had for a sucking.
And this, of
course, was Dobby’s penis: incongruously erect in the excitement of
battle and
disembodied as it lay within close reach.
A long thick
penis, two bulging balls and no one at either end of its length to
enjoy it
ever again. And a puddle of semen intermingled with blood was to be the
last ever
outpouring from the now thoroughly exterminated Brickworks Lane Pals.
