The 400 Year WarChapter 8 The French and Indian Wars
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A Privileged LifeChapter 2: The War Years free porn video
"Are you sure about this war business, father?" I asked.
"Yes. Churchill is convinced that Hitler will never be satisfied until he has all of Europe under his thumb. Chamberlain is a fool if he thinks his Munich Agreement is worth the paper it's written on. Mackenzie King is dithering about which oracle to consult, and our American friends have no interest in getting involved. I'm afraid the Commonwealth is ill prepared for conflict. My god, it's been barely twenty years since the Great War."
My father was grey with worry as he recited his fears to Mother, Uncle, and me. He was sure that England would react if any of the principal European countries were attacked, and that would bring in the rest of the Commonwealth, including Canada.
"What should I do, father? I have only a year left of college, and I would like to graduate. Will I get the chance?"
"Stay in school, Trevor. Go only when you are called. I can arrange for Officer Command School for you. No need for you going through the trials of a foot soldier when there is important work to be done in Ottawa. Your knowledge of languages should give you some advantages, I think. I'll do some discreet checking," he promised.
I felt somewhat better. The thought of being stuck in some mud-filled trench in France was not my idea of an ideal future. I'd seen enough film of the Great War to know what fate awaited those men. Besides, I had responsibilities here in Canada. Two of them, to be precise. Hilda and Francine.
"Francine, my sweet, you look absolutely gorgeous in that outfit."
"Silly boy ... I'm not wearing anything," she giggled. Even her laughter had a French accent.
"My favorite ensemble. Let me feast on you, my love. I want to devour you whole."
"Oui, mon cheri. Bring me your lovely body, Trevor. I desire you."
"And I will help you quench that desire," I growled in lust.
Francine loved my oral attentions more than any other woman I had been with. In fact, I wondered if she didn't appreciate them even more than when my manhood was fully ensconced in her. On the other hand, she was never one to resist. She loved making love, in any manner I chose. She had introduced me to anal sex, something I wasn't particularly enamoured with, but was willing to try if for no other reason than to please her.
In my three years of college, I had bedded five young ladies of proper upbringing. It was a point of pride that I did not avail myself of any of the ones of easy virtue. Jeanette, Marguerite, Alicia, Hilda, and Francine were all fine young women who, each in her own inimitable way, were fascinating lovers and delightful companions.
Regrettably, Marguerite, and now Hilda, had grown more attached to me than I had anticipated, and I feared another uncomfortable parting when that became necessary. I was going to have to learn to ration myself more carefully in future. I had no plans for a permanent relationship with any of these women, but they, on the other hand, had plans for me.
My uncle often quoted Samuel Johnson's "Love is the wisdom of the fool, and the folly of the wise." I was careful not to fall in love with any of these delightful young ladies, all of whom had designs on finding a husband while in college. Easier said than done, in some cases. Marguerite was quite unhappy with me for spurning her advances, or in her words, "leading her on," an unfortunate conclusion to our liaison which dogged me for almost a year.
Hilda, on the other hand, was more candid in her plans. She stated plainly that since we had been intimate, it was my duty to marry her, lest she be soiled merchandise afterwards. I resisted her advances, but she had become quite persistent in her ambition and showed no signs of letting up. Bloody awkward, since I had already moved on to Francine.
"Hilda, my dear, my father is certain that war is imminent in Europe. If that is so, England, and thus all the Commonwealth, will be drawn into it. I have no intention of marrying in those circumstances. It would be grossly unfair to you. Perhaps, when it is all over, and if we still feel the same way, well ... then we'll see. But for now, I have a year to complete my education and that is my priority."
She wasn't happy with my rejection, but understood I was unbending in my refusal to marry in haste. She would survive it, I was sure. She was quite beautiful and would attract many a suitor in my absence.
I didn't have long to wait for a resolution. Three weeks after beginning my final year of college, Hitler attacked Poland and we were at war. True to his word, my father arranged for me to finish my final year on the promise that I would enlist in the Army directly upon graduation. I did, knowing that I would be going to OCS in Brockville, and then on to Military Intelligence in Ottawa to sharpen my skills in translation.
I couldn't have picked a more boring assignment than reading document after document containing no strategic value whatsoever. I might as well have been reading recipes for a cookbook. On the other hand, the number of available women who were without a man was quite extraordinary. I found myself having to limit my efforts through fatigue more than anything else. It was, as my American friends would say, "like shooting fish in a barrel."
By the second year, I must have complained a little too loudly at this waste of my talents, for shortly thereafter I was seconded by our British allies and sent to North Africa to translate captured German and Italian papers. At least I was contributing something. On the other hand, I could not imagine a more desolate, forbidding, or dangerous landscape, short of the moon.
It goes without saying that available women were non-existent in the Sahara environs. It was a dry spell that I was to endure until after our American and British companions invaded Sicily in July, 1943, almost four years after the outbreak of war.
I had been in North Africa since October, 1941, and was thoroughly weary of hearing artillery fire and screaming sergeant-majors. We were in the midst of a ferocious battle between Commonwealth troops and the might of Rommel's Panzer divisions. It seemed we were moving camp almost weekly as the conflict raged back and forth. I was up to my ears in intelligence papers brought in from captured enemy forces, but by the time I got them, the shape of the individual battles had already changed, and I wondered if I had ever contributed anything of use at all.
Looking back on it, I was bloody lucky to escape without a scratch, considering how close I was to the action and how tenuous was the hold on our position. If nothing else, it helped take my mind off the fair sex. I had been doing without, but so had thousands of others who were in more mortal danger than me. I counted myself lucky to be at least some distance from the various fronts.
My arrival in Sicily was a relief. The Americans, Canadians and British had made life miserable for the German and Italian forces on the island, most of them escaping to the mainland rather than put up a futile fight. For the first time, I was with troops from my own country; Canada having been a significant part of the invasion force. I was back with my fellow countrymen, and relieved to be sure.
We learned to our regret that what was thought to be a quick march up the boot after the surrender of the Italian government, turned into a desperate rear-guard action by German forces, the likes of which we hadn't seen before. I had been transferred to the mainland now, working with our forces along with the Brits in Calabria, the toe of the boot. By November, I knew we were in for a long slog.
In North Africa, I had learned to admire the Australian, New Zealand, and Indian troops for both their bravery and their ferociousness. I would never have wanted to be their enemy. The New Zealand and Indian troops in Italy dished out more of the same. Incredibly brave against prodigious odds, they soldiered on in spite of horrific losses. Their initial storming of Monte Cassino was repulsed by reinforced German forces in a gruesome battle.
I think that period in my life formed a hardened shell around me for years to come. The death and destruction we witnessed ate at us bit by bit. As I lay in my cot at night, I would force myself to remember happier times in college with the women I had encountered. I wondered what I would do with myself after this madness was over. We were winning, we were told. There was little evidence of it, other than our slow northward progress up the western side of Italy.
Any idea we would engage with the women of Sicily had been knocked out of us quite promptly. The nasty gangs that effectively ruled the island had no allegiances to either the Allies or the Germans. While they never interfered in our operations, they made it clear that their women were off-limits. Based on the number of missing or cut-up soldiers that ignored these warnings, I wasn't about to tempt fate.
The mainland was another matter. The further north we moved, the more congenial the population became. They had no love for either the late Mussolini or their erstwhile German friends. My luck had at last changed. It was also in Italy that I learned an important lesson. Widows, or even married women separated from their husbands, were much more amenable to discreet dalliances behind closed doors. Since widowed women were plentiful, it wasn't difficult to find willing paramours to wile away the hours. I confess, they rejuvenated my spirits immensely after two years of abstinence.
Naples provided a virtual cornucopia of opportunities in which I happily indulged. There was Sophia and Marietta and buxom Tita, Caterina, and some whose names I cannot recall, if I ever knew them. I spent over three months in the city and availed myself of every opportunity, making up for lost time. My celibate life had ended. I almost hated to move on to our next destination except it might offer even more delights of the flesh.
With a brief stop in Velletri, I arrived in Rome and prepared to set up shop. It was clear now that we were gradually beating back the German forces toward Florence and ultimately out of Italy altogether. The intelligence I was being fed was now almost redundant. The German plot was clear: retreat, counter-attack, withdraw, hold, retreat, counter-attack. Our American friends were slowly but surely pushing the enemy out of the country. It was only a matter of time.
Time was something I now had more of for myself. I admit to being a bit of a tourist, visiting all Rome's famous sites that were so historic, and happily for the most part, preserved. Perhaps it was due to my past gluttony in Naples, but I was not in any particular hurry to find a new playmate. The city was filled with Allied soldiers, and along with all the staff types like me, the competition was quite stiff for the available females; pardon the pun.
Magdalena Sachetti lived with her mother and disabled brother above a modest little bakery that their family had operated for decades. I had been wandering the back streets rather aimlessly early one morning, simply wiling away some free time, when I caught the aroma of freshly baked bread. I can't recall when I'd last enjoyed that sensuous experience, but it had been a very long time. The pull was irresistible.
What was equally irresistible was the woman behind the counter. She smiled as I entered, although it was a formality rather than a smile of pleasure. Perhaps my uniform? I addressed her in her native language and the smile became genuine.
"You are from Canada," she said, pointing at my shoulder patch.
"Ottawa, the capital."
"Yes ... I know. I have cousins in Toronto and Edmonton. I want to go there some day. But now, I must look after my mother and brother."
"I am surprised that there is no husband for a woman as beautiful as you," I said boldly.
"My husband is dead. The Fascista said he was an enemy of Italy. He would not bow to the Germans. He was a fool. Now I am alone with my mother and my brother. He is crippled in his legs."
"I'm very sorry to hear that. It must be a great burden on you. How does your brother get up and down the stairs to his room?"
"Paulo sleeps in the back room," she said, pointing to the rear of the building. "The toilet is nearby. It is the best we can do for him."
I nodded. "And you. Do you spend all your time caring for your mother and brother?"
"No ... I cannot. I must bake some bread each day to earn enough to feed us. We have little yeast, and no butter. Even salt is difficult to buy. The war, you understand," she said sadly.
"Yes, of course. I admire your courage. You are a very brave woman. You honor your family."
"Grazie, Signore Capitano," she said shyly.
"It's Trevor ... Trevor Stainsbury. And you are... ?"
"Signora Magdalena Sachetti."
"Magdalena ... it's a very beautiful name."
"Grazie," she said, casting her eyes downward.
"I would like to purchase four loaves of your bread, please."
She looked at me, surprised. "Si ... of course. Thank you Capitano."
She passed me the four loaves and I paid her in American scrip. She would be able to get more value for it than any amount of Italian lire. The look on her face was one of pleased surprise. I wondered if it was more than she had seen in a week. No one had approached the store in the time I had been there.
I went back to our operations center that morning and made some inquiries. My sergeant was a horse trader of the first order, and I explained what I wanted and why I wanted it. He was quick to respond. By two o'clock, I had several pounds of butter, two sacks of flour, five pounds of salt, and several tins of yeast. All this for the cost of four weekend passes. I borrowed a jeep and with the help of my sergeant, loaded the booty into the back and left for the Sachetti bakery.
I drove cautiously up the narrow street, stopping in front of the bakery. It was closed, the door locked. I knocked, but I heard no one coming. I knocked more loudly. Still, I neither heard nor saw anyone in the store. This time I pounded more forcefully on the door. I thought I saw some movement, and after a few moments, a young man, obviously crippled, dragged himself across the floor to the door. He opened it carefully.
"Si?"
"Signor Sachetti, is Magdalena here? I have some things for her."
"Un momento," he said sleepily. "Magdalena!" he suddenly shouted.
A few moments later I heard footsteps on the stairs and she appeared, wiping sleep from her eyes. I had awakened her, and I felt extremely embarrassed.
"My apologies, Magdalena. I did not mean to wake you. I'm sorry. I have brought you some supplies for your bakery. I would like to bring them in with your permission."
"Supplies? I don't understand. What supplies?"
"I have flour, butter, salt, and yeast for you. I will put them where you want them. Please show me."
"I cannot pay you for this!" she cried.
"No ... no ... you don't understand. We have more than we can use. It is a gift to help you. If you can bake your bread, you can earn money to help your brother and mother. I just wanted to help."
She stared at me, wondering what I was telling her. I turned and went to the jeep, bringing in the sacks of flour, then the other items. She stood, staring at them, unmoving.
"Magdalena, where should these things be put?" I repeated. "The butter? Do you have an ice box?"
That seemed to shake her out of her frozen state.
"Yes. The butter. Here ... I will put in the locker. I have never seen so much butter. It will last a long time," she said in awe, looking up at me. "Why have you done this?"
"I wanted to help. You needed help and I knew I could. It is a very small thing to do for you."
I saw the tears form in her eyes. "Thank you, Capitano Stainsbury. You are very generous. Please, let me give you a small glass of wine."
She hurried off to the back from where her brother had dragged himself. I heard the clink of glasses and a minute or so later, she reappeared with two glasses of a dark red wine.
"Perfavore," she said shyly, passing me a well-used juice glass. No fine crystal here.
"Grazie." I sipped the offered drink slowly, realizing quickly that it was a crude local wine, probably made in some basement hideaway to keep it from being plundered. Nonetheless, it was offered in friendship and I found it quite drinkable in that context. I'd had far worse in North Africa.
I took the opportunity to examine Signora Sachetti. She was tall, unusually so I thought. Almost my height. She was also voluptuous. Perhaps a widow, but a very desirable widow indeed. Her dress almost hid what I was sure were exquisitely formed legs, but could do nothing to hide her prominent bosom. Her long, jet-black tresses swept down across her shoulders, framing a very lovely oval face with beautiful brown eyes and full lips. She was both sensuously beautiful and available.
On my first visit to the bakery, her hair had been tied up in a cloth wrap around her head, and her body hidden behind a heavy, white apron. There was no such disguise to hide her lovely features now. I felt a stirring in my loins confirming my desire to know this lovely woman more personally. I sipped the wine slowly, attempting to delay my departure for as long as possible. Magdalena must have sensed this, as she visibly relaxed and began to talk.
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