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The Crossing - Part 1 free porn video
When we escaped from our PoW camp we'd be going our separate ways to
increase the chances of some of us making it home. Unlike the others, I'd
be crossing Nazi Germany dressed as a woman.
THE CROSSING - part 1
by BobH
(c) 2015
- 1 -
I had given my final, secret class an hour earlier and now I stood in
front of one of the small shaving mirrors over the wash basins in the
latrine block, my heart racing. Thanks to some quirk of our bloodline the
men of my family developed no more facial or bodily hair than the women
so I had never used a razor in my life, but then that wasn't why I needed
the mirror on this occasion. I examined my reflection critically, taking
in the hair grown down to the nape of my neck over the past eleven
months, the carefully plucked and shaped eyebrows, and sighed. When I
landed my commission in the RAF I never imagined it would come to this.
I'd trained as a navigator, and while my small stature and slight build
would have been a disadvantage in the army it was well-suited to the
tight space and cramped conditions of a bomber. As a secondary skill I
was also trained in the use of nose and tail guns, my small size once
again an advantage in those less than roomy perspex blisters.
On the night of 23rd September 1942, while serving with No. 76 Squadron
under the command of Leonard Cheshire, my Handley Page Halifax bomber
took part in an air raid on the U-boat pens at Flensburg, Germany. The
aircraft was hit by flak and subsequently ditched in the North Sea near
Sylt. It broke up and quickly sank and I was just as quickly captured. I
was 20 years old, the only survivor of her crew. Eventually I ended up
here, in Stalag Luft XII, where I've spent the last year of my life. It's
now 8th August 1943. Tonight, God willing, I'm getting out.
"Snap out of it and get a move on, Ripley!" came a voice from the other
person in the latrine block. "We're on in a few minutes and you haven't
done your make-up yet!"
This was Flight Lieutenant Alexei 'Alec' Delon who was standing at the
mirror next to mine, putting the finishing touches to his own. Despite
his name he was English born and bred and had even gone to Eton,
something beyond the means of my own parents. We tolerated each other but
there was no love lost between us. While it wasn't a word I'd normally
use in relation to another man it was the only one that described his
attitude towards me, and that word was 'bitchy'.
"Yes sir," I said, picking up one of the tiny pots of cosmetics that had
been ingeniously manufactured using a set of water colour paints crushed
and mixed with expired gel of some description from a medical kit. I
dipped the small paintbrush into the pot and began applying colour to my
lips.
When I was satisfied with my appearance I gave my reflection a little nod
of approval then picked up my earrings, hooking the wires through my
pierced earlobes. One of the advantages of being in a large prisoner of
war camp with men drawn from every walk of life was that whatever skill
you needed there was almost certainly someone who possessed it, whether
that skill lay in jewellery making, ear piercing, or even cobbling. I
looked down at my feet, and at the stylish women's heels I was wearing.
Boots worn beyond the point of repair could still provide enough usable
leather to make women's shoes for feet as small as those of Alec Delon
and myself. We wore skirt suits fashioned from surplus uniforms, silk
blouses made using the remains of a ruined parachute, crude bras filled
with padding to create the illusion of breasts, and had dark lines
pencilled up the backs of our legs to suggest seams of the stockings that
were beyond the ability of the camp's tailors to produce, miracle workers
though they were.
"Time to go," said Delon, giving his blonde locks a final fluff. He had
started growing his hair out before I arrived at the camp so it was
longer than mine, flowing down to his shoulders. This was important to
him, part of the competition between us that existed only in his head.
Unbidden, I found my mind drifting back to the grilling I'd received soon
after arriving here. I stood before a table behind which sat Wing-
Commander Compton, our senior officer, flanked by two junior officers.
Such interviews were fairly standard, a way of getting the measure of a
man, but they were by no means a mere formality.
"So you speak fluent German, do you?"
"Yes, sir. I picked it up when my family lived here for several years
during the thirties when my father worked for a German company."
"You would've been a child then, so I suppose that means you speak it
with a German accent, too."
"Yes, sir, I do. We moved around a bit, but spent the longest time in
Munich so that's the accent I speak it with. When the Nazis came to power
my father could see which way the wind was blowing and he decided it was
time we returned to blighty."
"Hmmm. A young man who speaks perfect German and is the sole survivor of
his air crew. You sound almost too good to be true."
"Sir? I don't understand, sir."
"The Jerries, lad. Wouldn't put it past 'em to put a spy in here among
us."
"I can assure you I'm no German spy, sir," I protested, "I'm an
Englishman, and proud of it!"
"Relax, Flying Officer, we know you are. There are men here who were at
Cranwell at the same time as you were. They recognized you and have
vouched for you. You speaking German will be very useful. We'll have you
teach others as much as they need to get by when they escape from this
dump. It will have to be in secret, of course. Can't have Jerry figuring
out why we're doing it. Do you have any particular non-military skills or
hobbies? What did you do in civvy street?"
"I'm afraid I was just a lowly bank clerk. A respectable enough
profession for one such as I, but I had always dreamed of one day being
an actor."
The Wing-Commander's ears pricked up at this.
"Does that mean you were involved with amateur dramatics?"
"Yes, sir."
"Were you any good?"
"I always got glowing reviews, and several theatrical agents told me that
if not for my small stature I could have been a major star. Sadly, there
aren't many leading roles for men my size."
"Perhaps not, but as it happens you might be just what we've been looking
for here" he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "With your height and
build you're perfect for female roles in the plays we put on to keep the
men's morale up. I'll let everyone know Alec Delon is no longer the only
one being allowed to grow his hair out. That'll be all, Flying Officer
Ripley. Dismissed."
Which is how I found myself in my current siuation. All my life people
have been telling me I look like a girl, and all my life I've been
fighting it. But this had been an order not a request, and you can't turn
down an order from a superior. So now someone who looked like a girl was
staring back at me from the mirror. And she was as pretty as I'd always
been afraid she would be.
"Come on, Ripley," said Delon, heading for the door, "we mustn't keep our
public waiting."
Two junior officers had been stationed outside the latrine block to stop
anyone entering while we dressed. It was they who escorted us the short
distance to the mess hall that doubled as our theatre thanks to the
raised platform at one end on which the top table was usually located.
With the addition of a painted backdrop, some curtains, and the chairs
that were our only props, this was our stage.
As we crossed the few yards between the two buildings in the fading
evening light so men stopped what they were doing, be it kicking a ball
about or tending one of the vegetable patches that had been dug along the
side of every hut on the side that got the sun, and stared at us. Some
smiled, others looked wistful and still others had strange expressions
that were a mixture of lust and longing. They knew we weren't real women
but we looked very convincing. It might be just an illusion but in most
cases that illusion was the closest any of them had got to laying eyes on
a women in years. I understood their reaction but it made me
uncomfortable. Not so Alec Delon. He smiled and waved to them. Even so,
there were more eyes on me. Realising this was when the penny finally
dropped. Delon was jealous of me because I made a prettier woman than he
did! He actually *liked* the attention and he resented me attracting more
of it than he did. Huh. Well so far as I was concerned he was welcome to
it.
We entered the mess hall through the small side door nearest the stage
and quickly ducked behind the curtain. The two men playing the male leads
were already there, all four of us squeezed together in that necessarily
cramped space. The play we were performing had been written by someone in
the camp and was a sub-Noel Coward comedy of manners featuring two
military wives and their husbands. Making the men airmen meant they could
wear their own uniforms, of course. Alec Delon was fluent in both Russian
and French, his parents being from those countries, so the playwright had
also taken advantage of this to make his character a French woman.
When the play started and I made my entrance I was pleased to see we had
a full house, with every chair taken and men standing around all the
walls. Not surprising really given how starved for entertainment we all
were. Seated in the centre of the front row was Colonel Klingermann, the
camp commandant, and a decent enough sort for a German. He didn't want to
be in the camp any more than we did, and his regime was mostly fair if
somewhat strict. He had an appreciation for the arts which was why he was
in the audience, though how much claim to being 'art' our performance
could make I couldn't say.
The play went well, with laughs coming in all the right places and none
of us forgetting our lines. Alec Delon and I had been drilled for hours
at moving and gesturing like women by someone who had been a fashion
designer in civilian life and it was something we now did almost without
thinking when dressed in drag, so that was easy. Kisses were mostly on
the cheek, and the couple of more passionate ones the script required
were achieved by me and the male characters just tightly pressing our
lips together - no tongues, thank God! Then it was over. The audience
cheered and gave us a standing ovation. I knew my own performance had
been good - I did not suffer from false modesty when it came to my acting
ability - but those the others turned in had been merely adequate so I'm
not sure we really deserved it, but we took our bows and waved to the
assemblage.
Now it was time for the real work of the night to commence.
- 2 -
The lights mounted on the guard tower swept over the camp as they did
every night, and it was that fact we were counting on. Bored guards half-
heartedly performing a repetitive task were unlikely to be as alert after
many successive nights of such a duty as they had been on their first
one. So it was that those of us in huts G and H were able to dash across
to hut A in small groups between each sweep and to slip inside. Hut A was
the closest to the first of the barbed wire fences that surrounded us and
to the wood beyond and so provided the shortest distance an escape tunnel
needed to be dug. However, in the morning it would be those from huts G
and H who were had escaped not hut A and it was hoped by this subterfuge
to divert attention from it and so to preserve the tunnel for a
subsequent escape.
Inside the hut I joined a queue of people lining up to enter the hole
that had been dug beneath the heating stove. As with any excavation
disposing of the soil you've removed without it being noticed presented a
problem, one ingeniously solved by long cloth tubes inside a man's
trouser legs that could be filled with the spoil. All he then needed to
do was stand in one of vegetable patches, release the soil, and it would
quickly be dug into that patch by the man tending it. It had taken many
months to scoop out but now the tunnel was ready and several dozen of us
would be making our bid for freedom tonight.
Ahead of me in the line I noticed that Alec Delon had been paired up with
Robert Simpson, a fellow Flight Lieutenant, the best student in my secret
German language classes and, interestingly, the man who had played Alec's
husband in our play. Alec seemed pleased by this and was gazing up at
Simpson adoringly. Then it was my turn.
"Ah Ripley!" said Wing-Commander Compton. "Did you leave the clothes on
your bunk?"
"Of course, sir."
The clothes in question were a spare copy of the female attire I had worn
on stage earlier tonight. The Germans didn't know our tailors had made
more than one for both Alec Delon and me and thus, so it was hoped, would
have no reason to suspect we were escaping dressed as women. Not that
either of us were in drag at the moment. No, we were wearing our regular
uniforms, our hair pinned up, and carrying our female clothing in
packages tied up with string. We wouldn't be changing into that clothing
until it made sense to do so.
"And you have your papers?"
"Yes, sir," I said, patting the breast pocket where they resided.
"Good man!"
According to my papers I was Paula Grunwald, a 21 year-old from Munich.
How the camp's scroungers had managed to acquire a camera I don't know,
but the photo ID showed me in female mode and our forgers had made an
excellent job of all the lettering and official stamps.
"Right, then down the hole you go," said the Wing-Commander. "Major
Benton is waiting for you the other end."
"Benton?" I said. "You're pairing me with him? But we're both fluent in
German. I thought the plan was to pair us off with others who weren't in
order to increase their chances."
"Plans change," he said, not able to look me in the eye. "Benton will
explain everything to you."
I didn't like the sound of that, but it wasn't as if I had any choice in
the matter.
The 'hole' was a chamber that had been dug under hut A's cast iron
heating stove. It could easily be concealed when that stove was moved
back into place. It was full height and contained the bellows used for
pumping air down a duct fashioned from old tin cans that ran the full
length of the claustrophobically tight tunnel that had been dug under the
fence. This terminated in another chamber one hundred and thirty yards or
so away, just inside the tree-line of the wood. The two men in the
chamber helped me lie down on the small trolley that would carry me
through the tunnel on the wooden rail that had been laid, then one of
them tapped on the duct. On hearing this, the men in the far chamber
started pulling on the rope attached to the front of the trolley and I
found myself propelled through the tunnel, its dirt walls and wooden
props mere inches from my body on all sides.
"Benton," I muttered as it trundled along the tracks, "why Benton?"
Though that fact had been kept from the Germans, and from most of us
Brits, Mark Benton was a spook. He was a member of S.O.E., the Special
Operations Executive, a group most people had never even heard of. Their
self-mocking name for themselves was 'the Ministry of Ungentlemanly
Warfare', and if even half the stories you heard whispered about them
were true then some of that warfare got very ungentlemanly indeed.
Sabotage, spying, assassinations - they did it all. Unlike the rest of us
he wasn't RAF. But then unlike the rest of us he hadn't been brought here
by the Germans either. No, he had *parachuted* in and got tangled up in
the barbed wire fence - his was the torn parachute the women's blouses
worn by me and Alec Delon had been made from. Coming here hadn't been
deliberate, but when the aircraft carrying him had been shot down three
weeks ago this was where he'd landed. Ironic, really. Given the direction
it was headed he'd clearly been on his way to carry out whatever his
mission had been.
When I arrived in the other chamber it was Mark Benton who helped me up.
Rugged rather than handsome, he was a big man with rough, calloused
hands, and was currently sporting a full beard. Despite the civilian
clothing he was wearing, which had been carefully crafted from uniforms
and bedding, he was not someone you'd want to meet in a dark alley. I got
on the short ladder leading to the surface and Benton positioned himself
behind me. He nodded to the other two men in the chamber who then dropped
tin cans over the candles in the chamber to kill the light and quietly
slid back the camouflaged wooden cover that concealed the chamber. Benton
and I quickly scrambled up the ladder and crawled away from the opening.
When there were enough trees between us and the camp to do so we got to
our feet and surveyed our surroundings. We were alone, of course, Delon
and Simpson and the pairs who had preceeded them having fanned out,
heading for freedom. Since Stalag Luft XII was more or less in the middle
of Germany there were three options. Head north for the coast, south for
the Swiss border, or west for occupied France in the hope of linking up
with the Resistance. Benton studied the night sky to get his bearings.
"We go this way," he said, turning east.
"Wait!" I protested. "That direction takes us deeper into Germany."
"I know. I have a mission to attempt and you're going to help me."
"What sort of mission?"
"The codename was Operation Foxley. Its primary objective was the
assassination of Adolf Hitler."
To be continued....
**********************
Notes:
Two things I've never done here before are write a story of cross-
dressing rather than physical transformation, and write a serial. The
first was because cross-dressing really doesn't interest me, and the
second because all too many writers here launch into interminable
'serials' that they make up as they go along with no idea as to what
their ending is. Yet here I am doing both. Why?
Some time back I read an article online about military cross-dressing
during wartime that surprised me. It seems there were performers charged
with entertaining the troops in drag and who were required to play that
role full-time, even down to dressing in female military uniform when not
performing. That was interesting, but more intriguing was how those who
played female roles in plays put on in PoW camps were allowed to grow
their hair out, and a reminiscence by someone in one of those camps about
how uncomfortable he found it to shower alongside them since the men were
usually chosen for their ability to look at least semi-plausible as
women. Which made me wonder: did any of those men try escaping disguised
as women? If they did I could find no record of it, but the idea
intrigued me enough that I found myself idly putting together the story
of such a man to the point where I realised I was going to have to write
it. And since this meant I was now doing one of the two things I'd never
done before, then why not do the other?
However, please note that I never start a story without knowing what the
final scene will be, and this is no exception. It will end with a
confrontation between my protagonist and a famous, real-life American. In
fact I've already written that scene. Not sure how many chapters it will
take, but I do know roughly the path I'll be taking to get there. Should
be fun.
Oh, and that thing about the men in Ripley's family having no more facial
or bodily hair than the women is a real thing. I used to go to school
with someone who had that very condition. No idea how common or how rare
it might be.
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