Military Actions

By James Orr

Stories of the Military. Read what the Army, Navy and Air Force service men get up to when wives and girlfriends are not around to relieve their sexual pressure. Erotic short stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447852773

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Military Actions

Military Actions

Short Stories by James Orr

MILITARY ACTIONS

JAMES ORR

LEGAL NOTICE

Text by James Orr, Copyright 2011

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happenings.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publishers and/or author.

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibilities for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of information contained herein.

For Sam

Trenches

The soldier boy for his pay obeys, but the King's shilling was hardly remuneration enough for the wages of fear. The war had dragged on for nearly three years, and they were sending boys, fresh out of school, to fill the boots of their fallen comrades, knee deep in the trenches.

Private Jeremy Pollard, of the South Essex Fusiliers trembled as he heard the whoosh, the clumps of bombs exploding in the air. A blood crimson sky, first turned black, then was turned into brilliant green phosphorescence, as a light fell, targeted his platoon.

Heads down, lads, keep clear of the snipers, a bullet in the head will send you back home, but in an envelope, your mum will put it on the mantel piece, next to the china teapot, said Sergeant Harding. Looking after his lambs.

That's only if you fall out an aeroplane, like those Royal Flying buggers, Sergeant, said Tompkins, the corporal.

The noise of the guns could be heard, as if laughing at the jokes of the soldiers.

Sir, it's been going on for five hours, won't it ever stop?

Don't sir me, no sirs, me lad, Sergeant Harding I'm called, to all and sundry, don't give me no airs. Oh, bugger, the sniper’s got somebody. Fucking hell.

Sergeant, over here, there's another wounded. Clear up the mess. Get him down, makes the place look a mess. Lieutenant Skidmore was a pompous prick if there ever was one. First tour. Been there four days.

Pollard, over here, help, me. Oh, God, it’s Henry Johns. He's done for. Help me, lad.

The two men, helped their fallen comrade down, dragging the corpse, down the tunnel they called a trench, along the duckboard path, the walls seven feet high, bags of sand to stand on, poke your rifle out, for a look, over the parapet into the dark of everybody's hell; no-man's land. Where men turn into men, and the first thing they do is start crying.

Pollard started sobbing. Harding held him, to smother, so the others couldn't see the unseemly tears.

Softy, murmured Harding, Stop your blubbering."

The noise, it won't stop...

Pollard was all of nineteen, a rugby scrum-forward, all-rounder in cricket, and in boxing too he had excelled; won a medal. But here, in the Armageddon on the Somme, he bawled like a baby.

Sshh, me lad, sshh.

George Harding, was a soldier, and had seen so many die. Seen young men in their prime cut down like chaff. His body huddled against the young private, who'd dropped his rifle, taken off his helmet, and hung to George Harding's strong body, and wouldn't let go. One fuck before dying, George promised himself, as his erection clearly felt by the young man, who had started to grind his hips into the man, as if he needed release, urgently.

Sir, Pollard's been hit; I'll take him, to the medic, see if he'll fix him up. Sergeant Harding yelled to the officer.

Oh, very well, said Lieutenant Skidmore, a blot on God's eyesight when it came to understanding men.

Take him, take him, but get back here sharpish, we've got a push on, at four thirty hours. None of your sodding malingering.

No sir. Can't wait, to get me chance, to stick me foot up the Hun's arse. All the way to the knee...

The Sergeant pulled Pollard's arm, draped it over his broad shoulder, arm wrapped the other around the soldiers' waist, walking the wounded. Pollard wanting so much to be taken away from the noise.

He dragged Pollard away, though of course not really hurt, except maybe in the soul, but limp in his arms, the boy's face, trickled, wet with tears.

"C'mon lad, just a way down Marlborough Road, then we'll turn left by the Two Chimneys, we'll be there in a jiff, just hold on, lad.

Pretend to limp some more, in case Skidmore's still looking."

The boy's warmth, even the smell of his fear, was arousing to Harding. He'd followed the lad's progress, when he first arrived; who was sprightly and healthily impertinent to authority, but always looked sad.

They'd shared a cigarette one night, as the Sergeant, cupped his hands around the burning ember, a bull's eye for snipers, as the boy hungrily sucked and inhaled on the cheap smoke. He returned the wetted end the boy's lips had left, and concealing its light took a hefty drag on the ciggie. Sucked in his cheeks, and pursed his lips out.

A blue-grey ghost, rushed out. The boy coughed.

Couldn't do a single lap round the swimming baths now, said Pollard. As long as he can run two rugby field lengths, there and back, that's all that's required.

He'd spoken of home and the cottage that night. Of a cricket match, he'd rescued, as he bowled the other team out. A glorious day, the white flannels, grass stained buttocks, as he sailed through the air, to catch the tumbling cricket ball. He was hoisted on his team-mates shoulders and carried the silver cup. That day, with all my friends, he told Harding, in the bath, all naked and joshing, shoving, splashing. What a day.

Harding said goodnight, leaving an unlit cigarette on the youth's shoulders, tumbling down the front of the Private's tunic, and landed in the fold at the youth's crotch. That was only the first time, they'd talked together, whispering, the background noises of whizz, bangs and bomb-bursts, would have anyway hidden their words from prying ears.

Harding had stood watch with Pollard. There'd been others, other soldiers, nocturnal conversations. But Harding was attracted to the lad, positively burned for him. The lad warmed to The Sergeant’s bluff manner, and threw in a strong measure of hero-worship. But he hadn't ever yet given Harding that smile.

I can wait, thought George, just give the lad time.

The barrage was heavier now. The Artillery three miles back, threw bombs, filled with nails, anything metal, that after it popped, would tear out a man's entrails, and turn the face into jelly.

But at least they were on our side, and the bombs burst over the enemy's lines. And the roaring, rumbling gunfire chucked up death way up high. The constant noise of the guns, just to blow holes in the barbed wire. It was meant to demoralise the Germans, but only managed to demoralise both sides.

Hush, thee, now, Jeremy. We'll get you out of the noise for a while at least. There's an empty munitions pit, up yonder, just round the corner. We'll get you out of the noise for a bit.

The sergeant shoved the young soldier into the box, carved in the side of the trench's side. Should be filled with boxes of bullet-rounds, but recently the mail had been slow. But big enough barely to fit two men between the muddy walls and low ceiling. But enough

He held the boy round the waist, unshackled the belt-buckle clasp, undoing the belt of the Private's trousers. Buttons pushed through eyeholes until the khaki fly was open. Loosened white underpants that showed a healthy bulge.

Let's get at a look at the leg of yours. Might be gangrene.

I'm not hit, sergeant, you know that.

But he made no resistance as the sergeant slipped the army britches down under the youth's bum.

Yes, gangrene, just as I feared, the Sergeant said with a big smile, Have to suck it out.

Looks like you got gangrene too, Sarge, and a worse case than me, needs a bit of serious attention, said the lad with the Lancashire lilt in his voice. He pulled out his long boyish penis out of his underclothing, the little hooded head, exposed as he pulled back his foreskin, rolling it back between his finger and thumb. George reached to clasp it in his big hand, like as if he were testing the stick-grenades weight, had it good balance? Had it got an explosive potential?

Jeremy looked up coyly, into the sergeants big, hazel eyes, as he watched the sergeant's reaction, to the boy's erection, and what the effect was, and would his strong Sergeant would do anything about it.

For that moment, the guns at last were muted. While George grasped Jeremy by the privates, as he held the Sergeant, and jerked himself into George's closed palm.

The mud, of the French soil, never more to fill again with crops, as all the blood, had raised the acid content. Harding knew about agriculture. The ways of the soil, and how to handle livestock, being brought up on Old Muir Farm, that his father had promised that would one day be his. Oh, for a thicket of trees, with their shade, a view of the valley, wide and deep, patches of olive green rye, pale young corn, fallow meadows, a jug of cider, a comrade to share it with, out under the hot summer's sun. He had known such a lad. Trevor Bacon, from university, on holiday, but helped on the farm and was paid for his labour and sweat. He always baled hay, with his shirt off, and George was encouraged to do the same. Hayforks, throwing chaff, as they filled the wagon, twice as fast of any of the others. Finishing first and then lay in the shade, the best of friends.

A flood of summer memories spilled through his mind. Hayricks and Trevor, no older than this willing Private, who was trusted to his brawny hands. The young soldier had swallowed his fear. And bitten the bullet and was withdrawing George's cock from its lair.

He'd dragged Private Pollard into the cave for ammunition, a sandbagged hole called Calcutta, now only a rest-stop, of sorts, carved into the wall, four feet deep, and four feet high. Pollard's, hand wrenched into the drab-olive khaki uniform, the coarse wool, till he grabbed on, latched on to Harding's forthcoming erection. Throbbing if not purring as the lad stroked. A girth of some size, Pollard quickly learned. Blood thick veins and a torpedo of pink, looking for portholes, with its enquiring eye. Bronzed-leather in colour and the slow movements of a Bengali python ready to strike.

Let me get me webbing off, freshly whitened today.

He took off the white wide belts that carried the pouches, rifle rounds mostly and no letter from home. Soldiers ran past, but

George's broad back, hid all from sight.

The boy moved his bum backward into the corner, and raised up his knees, and pulled his feet back, the men were like two rag-dolls thrown in a drawer, with not enough room. Harding knelt with his back, almost sticking out, but he let the young lad undo him, let his cock emerge, a thick-necked snake in the darkness. The lad, Private Pollard, surrendered to the pulsing monster, doubling his lithe body in two, and into his mouth he let the sergeant push the cock in between his lips. He suckled and turned it, his tongue active, and tasted the oaky taste, of good old-fashioned British bull.

The sergeant unloosened his tunic; soon the lad, was licking his belly, the pubic hair, and then back along the shaft, then in the mouth again, feeling the weight of his balls with his tongue.

The sergeant’s arms were pressed against the walls, while his boy, and did his best to please his Sergeant, preventing the palace caving in. Harding's head was crooked at a right angle, and his steel helmet bit into the hard soil of the roof. The rifles propped by the outside wall, crossed at bayonet blades, the triggers facing together. The safety catches off.

Up, the hill a horse whinnied. George lifted the white ladder from the wagon. Trevor, a strawberry neckerchief round his throat, apple cheeked, and a strong fine chest, with soft manly hair, peeking out, from the carelessly buttoned shirt. His hair the colour of old hay, George's hair, just a slide of black treacle on top, the sides closely cropped, prickly, behind those big ears. Trevor was summer help, at Old Muir farm, tossing sheaves into the wagon all day, but the day's work now done.

I'll help you with that, said Trevor as a beam of a smile came.

He assisted George as they lay the ladder, on the tallest haystack. Trevor clambered up top, followed by George, a nose length away, looking back, but the others had already gone. At the top, unseen from below, the hollowed out part, where two men could fit snugly. Their bodies baked by the sun, no townies were they. In the scratchy hollow of hay already turning to straw. An eagle would have been proud of that nest.

I made this, today, said Trevor, Pull your pants down, and you'll see what I made for you.

He laid a wreath of daisies, a chain, locked at the stems, over, George’s shaft. It stood up like Stonehenge, with a druid circle surrounding the base. The petals lay out on his balls, rich and heavy, full with desire.

Doesn't it look appropriate? Trevor said as he took off his shirt, but mysteriously, the straw in his mouth stayed. He wiggled his bottom, as he slid his trousers down. Sat, pulled them off, naked, but for the loose shirt, the handkerchief, taken off slowly.

It looks right pretty. You’ll never believe it, but I got one too, said George as he laid a buttercup chain, and draped it on Trevor’s pointing dick.

They fell and they wrestled, the flowers, flew apart, as they crushed their bodies against one another’s. Lips pressed together till they turned white, each removing what was left of the other's clothing, hung over the rim of the straw-hollow, of the haystack.

To an observer, it would look as it the two were filled with pent up fury. George clung hard, his arm around Trevor's back, as if to pull him into himself, thrilled with excitement. He in turn, gripped one of George's thighs between his knees. His hand rode freely along the side of George's body as if measuring him. Striking buttocks, as were often done to the horses. Then Trevor, grabbed hold of George's dick, ran its head over his belly. Off on a journey through Trevor's body hair. George's arms rose from behind, and clamped on Trevor's buttocks, raised him up, and swallowed his cock.

No point, anymore of putting it off, now we've come this far there's no turning back, said Trevor as George rolled over so he was faced down.

You'll have to bend your knees, raise your arse, that's how it’s done.

George closed his eyes, as the farm help, came up, from behind. He surrendered, as he was entered. Surrendered to pleasure.

There was a silence in France, as George Harding had that melting feeling, felt the youth quivering, the blind gush of white hot saliva, and George jettisoned his spunk load.

Jeremy wiped the dripping sperm from his face said, I'm ready now, Sergeant, let's go kill some Hun.

The private wriggled his trousers back up covering the glimpse of his perfect white behind. Rearranged his uniform, leaving no choice, but for George to do the same.

No fuck for me, thought George Harding, but the next best thing. Twenty eight and a half.  When we go over the top, if we survive, I'll do him next time, I swear that I will.

Next time, tomorrow you can, you randy bugger. Pollard smiled as he read the Sergeant's mind. But a promise made of sand. Well, mud anyway. George's cock, at half-mast, still wanting to salute young Jeremy.

Go, on you, cheeky young monkey, get smartened up, and let's go back. No more skylarking, more's the pity.

He couldn't fail to notice the giant wet spot that flooded the crotch of Private Pollard's trousers. Glad, that the boy had come too.

I'll roger thee right royally when we get back.

He put his arm round the lad's shoulders, while Pollard brought his hand to clasp Sergeant Harding's fingertips. Two soldiers, reenergised and ready for war.

The summer sun had softened into dusk. A white streak in the sky signalled sunset. In the hay stack, Trevor had entered, into George's rear, it had taken much time, and much spit, little polish. He let the summer's help push and he felt a great hugeness inside, filling a void within. Trevor knew what to do. Bareback riding, the oldest of sports. The tricky thing was to stay in, not flop out, to bury within, and then start to ride. Start with a trot, the dick is in, the canter; the cock starts thrusting, then the gallop. But no hurry to rush down the last furlong, to get to the winning-post.

Much grunting, much milling and moaning. Then Trevor stopped quickly, while George was still galloping. And George wondered why. He felt a bubbling inside him his sphincter clamped hard as the locked gate was opened, and a river ran in. He rubbed his cock faster, as Trevor withdrew the sticky penis, still drooling, and George, buckled, and then came too. Two tributaries joined and formed an estuary, of milky white stickiness.

They lay bathed in sweat, in each other’s arms. George held the weight that had just impaled him. Now knowing why Adam had succumbed to the serpent.

Soft now, it is my turn, now, don't you think? he whispered in Trevor's ear, licking his tongue round the cartilage in the fleshy shell.

A crack of thunder broke, and they tore apart from each other.

You filthy bastards, a voice at the top, on the ladder. Farmer Harding, George's father. They hurriedly climbed out grabbing the garments they'd earlier had so casually discarded.

You are no son of mine.

They dressed sheepishly, and on the wagon-ride back, barely a word was spoken.

I'll expect you to sign up tomorrow, and don't show yourself back here, until you've killed a few Huns.

That was three years ago. He never went back. Spent his leave with a sailor from Rotherhide, A cook from Great Spaulding, and last time, with a Bloomsbury type. Duncan Grant. Who painted George's portrait, in the modern style, austere, dry impasto, and an overlong endowment. Introduced him to the Bloomsbury crowd that flooded him with ant-war propaganda, and encounters of the usual kind.

He came back to war, a much satisfied man. But it wore off quickly, as the Front stayed immobile. The Germans would charge, get cut down like flies, till the process was reversed, and more flies, more slaughter. Separated by just a bit more than a rugby field. Barbwire, the only protection. Between was a field muddied, brown with blood.  Murky pools of stagnant water filled the craters, made by bombs ejaculating from mortars.

Ferrets out for rabbits, but the ferrets were cheating. Useful for foxholes, waist deep in smelly water and disgusting underfoot.

Thank god for Pollard, or Harding would tumble.

He buttoned his trousers; found his cock was still hard. He looked

at Private Pollard. Pollard gave him that look.

They climbed back in the hole, and George's cock rubbed against the strawberry rosebud, as Pollard pushed his hips, under and up.

The badger had caught a fox, and the first thing he does was to fuck it. The boy’s eyes widened with alarm as George entered him.  But it was so good, as Big George got it in.

That man. On a charge. Gross indecency. It’s a court martial, both of you're for the high jump. Not being officers they'll shoot you. And no last fucking cigarette, barked Lieutenant Skidmore, waving his baton, at the two soldiers, who emerged, and couldn't call for innocence, as hanging down round his knees were the trousers of George Harding, and Private Jeremy Pollard's, his bum still exposed and George, with a cannon sticking out in front of him

I hope they use a canon when they shoot you. You're a fucking disgrace, you jumped up farmer. This is the army, not a barnyard.  You're in a position of trust.

A grenade went off in the distance. Skidmore cowered. The others waited until he stood up again, not so brave now.

I have a thought, Sergeant. We need volunteers to scout over the top. You've both volunteered. I'm proud to call you comrades. We won’t be meeting again. But if you send back a pigeon, with the enemies strength and I'll read it, after roasting and eating the brave bird.

He left routinely, just as he arrived. The brown trousers a little browner now.

There was no choice, but to prepare to go out into the Great Divide, that separated the two great armies, face to face with ech other both banging on the door, wanting to be let in. So Pollard and Harding made sure their rifles were clean, and their bayonets were sharp. As they'd no choice, anyway, in the morning, they'd be dead with their brothers, as twenty thousand men tomorrow would rush over the top of the trench towards twenty thousand guns.

Fully equipped, both with rifles, faces painted with bootblack and mud, they went over the top, emerging into the emptiness. Harding went over first rolling on his side, using his hips, like a viper, to move forward, his rifle in front, freshly oiled, fully loaded.

Orange blossoms cracked the sky. Staccato lights. Fireflies with tails, thirty feet long lay in the sky. Private Pollard behind him, both crawling on their stomachs, toward the barbed wire. Amoeba crawling out of the prehistoric soup, onto the beach of evolution.

Pretty good fireworks, Guy Fawkes Day, breathed Harding through clenched teeth, moving on by his elbows, his helmet hard down over his eyes. He glanced only once back to see if Pollard was following. Pollard getting more of a view of George's arse than was erotic. He held his rifle-butt hard and almost paddled his way into the encroaching mud.

A show just for us, it appears like; nice of them to give us entertainment, it's like we didn’t know where to find the bonfire, said Pollard, crawling forward, toward the bright lights. Wiggling like lizards, but unfortunately with no undergrowth. They passed through the hole in the barbed wire, marked with red flags, the Huns idea of a joke. Easily seen, but no one fired; the snipers must be playing cards. A lull only, as in only a few minutes the sun, reborn, will start his slow parade as he starts to stir from his slumber. And the sun will see what humans at their best, can do to each other.

Did you hear something? I thought a moan...

The place crawls with rats.

No, Sarge, it sounds human, and like in pain.

In the horror of the mud, a few tree trunks, sharpened to jagged pencil points, scratched at the sky. Holes in the ground, and the remnants of a ruined farmhouse, just a bit of a wall, that was all. But a whimpering, a frightened whimpering from behind the only cover for miles around.

His last leave, Harding had gone to London. Still in his uniform, a soft flat cap instead of the helmet. No weapons, just a soldier on the town. He wandered along the streets. Union Jacks at every window.

Window boxes dressed with flowers: geraniums, lobelia, alyssum, all patriotic colours; red, white, and blue. But the people were huddled, cold, though it was a warm evening. He'd heard there were shortages of food, and of tobacco. He carried five packets of cigarettes, courtesy of His Majesty's kind nature. Useful for the encounters he sought. Thought he'd found one down the Embankment. A young man leaning on the side gazing on the river at his reflection. Wonder how he's not called up, looks healthy enough, and the right age. Got his backside on display even.

Why are you cupping your hands, like that for? There's no wind.

Sorry, force of habit, said George with a faint smile.

But there wasn't that sign. Not that recognition, that this Sergeant needed