Unofficially Christmas
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It’ll All Be Over By Christmas free porn video
‘I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.’
(Robert Frost)
‘It’ll all be over by Christmas,’ that’s what we said back in September 1939. Almost tragically comic when you look back, it wasn’t over until May 1945 – if it’s ever over.
During that last summer before the war started I was teaching mathematics at St. Matthew’s Public school. I had only recently graduated from university and this was my first appointment.
For those unacquainted with this peculiarly British institution, the Public School, I’d better explain.
In British terms the ‘Public Schools’ were only public to the rich who sent their offspring to them, it saved their kids from associating with the lower orders who had be content with the inadequately funded government schools. In other words Public School = Expensive Private School.
During that last summer when the war clouds hung over Europe I attended the Promenade Concert Season at the Royal Albert Hall. Here I met Claudia. How we ever came to talk to each other I don’t know. We were both incredibly shy and as best as I can recall she dropped her programme and I picked it up. Somehow we ended up having an execrable cup of English coffee at a café in Kensington.
Over that cup of coffee I learned that she too was a teacher in another public school, ‘St. Anne’s Girls School,’ where she taught French. We made arrangements to meet at further concerts during that season and…what can I say, ‘Love at first sight’? Well, if not love, then at least mutual attraction that grew into love.
I have tried on numerous occasions to describe Claudia to myself and found it difficult. About five feet five tall, she was slim and very delicate. Perhaps ‘graceful’ is the best word, she was light, airy and fresh as a gentle sea breeze, modest, a truly feminine female.
I was walking on air during those days, ‘I shall be seeing Claudia tonight,’ ran constantly through my mind, probably to the disadvantage of my students. She came to fill my whole horizon and I knew that she was the one for me.
Then came Sunday September 3rd. We thought that within hours enemy aircraft would be raining down bombs on us. The government ordered the closure of all places of public entertainment, an order they soon reversed, and the first rationing of food began.
The so-called ‘Phoney War’ started, although the navy and merchant seamen might like to argue with that appellation.
There was a phrase around at the time about ‘Doing your bit,’ which meant joining up with one of the armed services. I decided to do my bit, but before volunteering I talked it over with Malcolm. Malcolm was in his mid thirties at the time and Vice Principal of the school and very ambitious, he anticipated becoming principal when old Carstairs finally retired.
‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ he said, ‘If this war comes to anything they’ll start calling people up soon and as a teacher your sure to be in a reserved occupation, but in any case it’ll all be over by Christmas.’
For a while I followed his advice, but it wasn’t over by Christmas and the school building, being situated close to London, the staff and students had been relocated in a large mansion in Berkshire. So foreseeing that the war was going to last a lot longer than most people had anticipated, in January 1940 I presented myself at the recruiting centre.
Weeks of recruit training and ‘square bashing’ followed, and after that I was entered into the Royal Engineers, and this was succeeded by my being chosen for officer training. As a result of all this I missed the France/Dunkirk debacle, and emerging from my officer training a raw young lieutenant I was granted seven days leave before joining my unit.
* * * * * * * *
Throughout the preceding weeks I had seen nothing of Claudia, our contact being almost daily letters. We had arranged that I spend two days with mother and then Claudia and I would go off to spend the rest of my leave in a small country hotel. The country hotel was decided upon because by then London and other major cities were being bombed daily.
Here I must insert a brief explanation. Claudia and I had already decided that we would be married. The future being uncertain, the marriage was to be deferred until the end of hostilities, thus we were going to the hotel as an engaged couple.
It must be understood by those who have known only a world in which contraception is almost one hundred percent secure, in the time I am writing of sexual intercourse during an engagement was not the non-optional extra it is now. There were, however, circumstances in which sexual discretion might be waived. This was one of those times.
Although it was never said openly either by Claudia or myself, the thought that lurked behind our coming together sexually was that I might not come back from the war, and I suppose Claudia thought I was entitled to a hero’s send-off. That might mean, of course, that the hero departed leaving a pregnant fiancé behind.
I shall not enter into detail about our love making, but I can say that we were both utterly naïve – innocent – when it came to things sexual.
I had never seen a naked woman and when Claudia’s body was revealed to me I thought it so beautiful I nearly cried. She was all pink a white except for the little wedge of dark pubic hair, I was utterly fascinated.
That first night I hurt Claudia rather badly as I spilt her hymen – something I’d never even heard of. The next morning I think we were both rather depressed at the lack of success we had achieved during the night.
I know now that we should have waited a couple of days before we copulated again to let Claudia heal, but by then my leave would have been almost over. As it was, paradise did not descend upon us until our last night together when Claudia had an orgasm.
We parted tearfully, swearing fidelity, not being sure when we would see each other again, that of course was the lot of many couples at that time.
As I have suggested, Claudia took the risk of becoming pregnant as the result of our activity, but according to her letters no such pregnancy resulted.
The Battle for France lost and the Battle of Britain still raging, I was attached to a company of field engineers that was due to be sent to Egypt. At that time we had little idea why Egypt except that the Italians who had by then entered the war were invading Egypt from their colony in Libya aiming to take control of the Suez Canal, and they were getting a trouncing.
As I can see now, with the Germans and Italians occupying most of the coast of Europe, Egypt was the only place where Britain could engage the enemy with any hope of success.
The initial successes in that theatre were quickly reversed when the Italians were reinforced by the German Afrika Korps. From then on the battle raged back and forth, and a humble lieutenant like me and his platoon had little idea of what was happening. Those who were supposed to know were usually ensconced in posh hotels miles behind the lines.
In October 1942 the Battle of El Alamein was fought and won by British forces. The combined German and Italian forces retreated, and I retreated with them. I had received a head wound and was taken prisoner.
I must say that I was treated well and got the medical attention that I needed. I and the other prisoners were told that we would be transferred to a prisoner of war camp in Italy, but this didn’t happen.
Before any transfer could be effected our North African camp was overrun and it was back to fighting.
Sicily and then Italy followed the North Africa campaign, and it was in Italy I met Crikey Richton. He was an army chaplain and he dropped into a slit trench I was occupying one night. We were being heavily shelled and Crikey (why Crikey I don’t know, but the troops had christened him that), spent some time with me philosophising about life in general and the war in part
icular.
Many of the army chaplains were full of bullshit about why we had God on our side. If he was on our side then why the hell were we having so many guys blown to bits?
Crikey would have none of this. He was clearly puzzled about what he could say or do to ease the soldiers’ lot, apart from distributing handfuls of cigarettes and saying the funeral service over their dead bodies. I think he was on the verge of turning atheist since he could make no sense of the slaughter both sides inflicted on each other.
‘You know,’ he said, after one shell landed uncomfortably near, ‘I bet those buggers shelling us reckon they’ve got God on their side as well.’
There was a brief lull in the shelling and Crikey left me with the words, ‘It’s a shit world son,’ and headed for the next slit trench.
I didn’t see him again after that, or at least, not until recently.
* * * * * * * *
That it was a shit world was reinforced for me by a letter I got from my mother.
To explain: it seems that after I got captured it was thought that I’d been killed. When guys get torn to pieces it can be difficult to distinguish who is who. The only identification is often an identity dog tag. It seems that my mother had received a telegram telling her that I was, ‘Missing presumed dead.’ She passed this premature news on to Claudia. It took a while before the authorities learned I was a prisoner and not dead, and so I received no letters from mother or Claudia until the fatal one arrived from mother.
The core of mother’s letter as far as I was concerned was the news that Claudia had married Malcolm who was by then school principal. I had introduced Claudia to Malcolm as my prospective bride before being sent overseas, and now she was my prospective bride no longer.
I think I must have gone crazy after that letter. The one important thing I had hung on to during all that carnage was going back home to be married to Claudia, now that vision had been snatched from me.
I did get a letter from Claudia after the one I received from mother. It seems that mother had told her about informing me of the marriage, and her letter came as a sort of justification.
In substance it said that having been told I was dead, and knowing that Malcolm had fallen in love with her, she married him on what she called ‘the rebound.’ She did not add, as a later letter from mother did, that she was four months pregnant when she married Malcolm. A little simple arithmetic told me that she had been having sex with Malcolm before I was wounded, taken prisoner and presumed dead.
My war became an even greater blur after that. I am told I took the most incredible risks, as if I wanted to be killed.
* * * * * * * *
May 1945 and it was all over, if it ever is over. People will no doubt go on slaughtering each other at the behest of their rulers, being told it is for freedom and democracy, Der Fuehrer, Il Duce, Socialism or whatever their so-called leaders can make up.
I ended up with the wartime rank of major and a nice row of gongs (medals). The hero returned home feeling something less than heroic. Vengeful better describes how I felt.
While waiting for my demobilisation Malcolm contacted me offering me my old job at St. Matthew’s, soon to return to its pre-war buildings.
I was amazed at his naivety in making such an offer. I could only assume that he had no idea of the impact his marriage with Claudia had on me. Had I been him I’d have tried to keep me as far away as possible. I also wondered if he had consulted Claudia about his offer. I could hardly imagine she would welcome my presence in the school.
I in my turn – I suppose masochistically – accepted his offer. It was as if I wanted to steep myself in the pain of seeing those two together.
It was a time when many servicemen came home after years of serving overseas, to find that there was a child or children that they could not possibly have fathered. Assaults, murders and divorces followed.
Yes, as Crikey had said, ‘It’s a shit world.’
* * * * * * * *
When I arrived to take up my position in the school Malcolm was full of the smiling ‘hero home’ stuff. He even used the term ‘hero’ when introducing me to the school assembly.
Claudia was amazingly calm when we first met. She said nothing about our past relationship and her marrying Malcolm. It seemed that for her I was just another teacher joining the staff at a time when teachers were in desperately sort supply.
To be truthful I played it low key myself in Jekyll and Hyde style, keeping my Mr. Hyde aspect well hidden. Had they but known how much I hated them and sought revenge they might have been less serene about my presence in their midst.
Such hatred sometimes dissipates with time, mine on the contrary grew with ever greater intensity. By then they had two children, and to see them playing happy families became excruciating.
Perhaps if they had just once sat down with me and talked through what had happened it might have ended differently. As it was they went on blissfully unaware of the malevolence that was building up inside me.
Paranoia crept into my thinking. They were deliberately taunting me with their happy family game.
The moment came about twelve months after I had begun teaching. It was the custom for the principal and his wife, once a year, to entertain at afternoon tea members of the staff on an individual basis or, if the staff member had a wife she too was invited.
Having no wife I went to the tea alone – well not quite alone, I took a long time companion with me.
It was very polite, civilised, and if I’d been in what people call, ‘my right mind,’ it would have been incredibly boring. Smug Malcolm who had hidden behind his ‘reserved occupation’ throughout the war, sitting there simpering and smiling, while Claudia quietly dispensed tea and cucumber sandwiches.
I watched them as they smiled and mouthed inanities about school life and the future prospects for expanding the school buildings. I returned their smiles until I gave the conversation a new twist.
I turned to Claudia and said quietly, ‘Claudia, have you any idea what it’s like to learn that your fiancé has married another man, to read that when you’re supposed to fighting for your fucking country. Tell me Claudia, if you were such a man and got that letter, how would you feel?’
Claudia sat open mouthed, but Malcolm chimed in, ‘I say old boy, there’s no need to go in to all…’
‘Shut up Malcolm,’ I snarled, you’ll get your turn shortly, how about an answer, Claudia.’
‘I-I-I don’t want to talk about it,’ she stammered.
‘I’ll bet you don’t,’ I sneered. ‘How about coming to your bedroom with me now and we can have a fuck for old time’s sake.’
Malcolm chimed in again and rising he said, ‘That enough, you can…’
‘Yes, and I’m going to,’ I replied. ‘I just need you to know how much I hate the two of you before I do.’
‘Get out,’ Malcolm yelled.
I smiled and said, ‘Not yet. I’ve brought an old companion with me that I’d like you to meet.’
I reached round the back of my trousers where my old companion stuck in the waist band had been giving me a very uncomfortable time, and pulled out my service revolver.
I had the satisfaction of seeing Malcolm’s face turn ghastly white as he gasped, ‘Don’t…don’t be so stupid…’
‘You first, I think, just so that Claudia can watch me kill the man who took my life from me.’
I pulled the trigger, the revolver jerked in my hand, the bullet struck him in the middle of his forehead and he dropped without a sound.
I swung the revolver round to Claudia. Her mouth hung open her eyes staring at me wildly in an ashen face. She made a noise oddly like that of the one time I had brought her to orgasm, ‘Ha…ha…oh…oh…’
The sound made me pause for a moment and I said, taunting he
r, ‘I’ll give you a chance my faithful one, make a run for it.’
She seemed paralysed so I yelled, ‘Bloody well run while you can.’
That seemed to jerk her into action and rather like an automaton she took a step back and then turned and lurched towards the door. Just as she got there I fired.
The bullet struck her in the back of the head.
You have no doubt heard of the neat bullet hole in the heads of people who have been shot. Neat going in, yes, but half her pretty face was torn away at the point of exit, and together with brains was splattered over the door.
I left them where they lay and made my way back to my flat and waited.
They soon came for me.
* * * * * * * *
I think my interrogators were rather frustrated. ‘Yes,’ I told them, ‘I killed them.’ That only left them to try and find out why.
I pleaded guilty at the trial and watched them spend public money on their legal pomposities.
The fat overpaid lawyer who served as the prosector had to have his pound of flesh.
‘This foul crime perpetrated against the innocent.’ ‘The poor little children now fatherless and motherless because of these fiendish and unprovoked murders,’ I could see some members of the jury wiping their eyes. ‘This monster must feel the full fury of the law,’ and so on.
I wondered how those who had sent millions to their deaths and made widows and orphans in abundance could be made to feel the full fury of the law.
Oh yes, the victors had brought the vanquished to trial at a place called Nuremberg, but who would bring the vanquisher to trial? It would be the victors who wrote the history of those times and as someone has written, ‘Man is able to find endless justifications for all his deeds.’
My poor defence lawyer had little to sustain him in his task.
He spoke of my war record, my alleged heroism, and made a play of the head wound I had sustained, suggesting that this had disturbed my balance of mind.
It achieved nothing. The jury found me guilty as I expected them to – in fact willed them to. The judge pronounced sentence.
* * * * * * * *
To my amazement it was in prison I met up with Crikey again, my slit trench companion for that one night in Italy.
He had not returned to the comfortable parish he had left to become an army chaplain, instead, after being demobilised, had become a prison chaplain.
He didn’t recognise me at first which is not surprising because it had been a dark night. It was only as I described our conversation that he remembered.
He asked me if I wanted to make my confession, and I told him yes.
I think my confession struck him as odd.
‘I confess,’ I told him, ‘the sin of innocence and naivety, the evils of hope, trust and fidelity, the crime of being part of a vast machine designed to slaughter millions, and the offence of having lived for so long.’
‘I…I can’t absolve you of those things,’ he said, confusion written on his face.
I felt sorry for him and replied, ‘No of course you can’t.’
He has been to visit me several times since then and we have talked mainly about the war.
They have weighed and measured me for the drop – they have to get it just right.
Crikey has just left me, assuring me he will be there with me in the morning.
I grinned at him and said, ‘I suppose I’ll being going to hell.’
The shadow of a sorrowful smile flitted across his face as he said, ‘I’ll see you there.’
‘It’s a shit world Crikey.’
‘Yes son, a shit world.’
I think I’ll give these ramblings to Crikey in the morning.
‘The prisoner ate a hearty breakfast,’ that’s what they say when you’re going for the long drop. I wonder if I shall eat a hearty breakfast?
* * * * * * * *
‘Death is a delightful place for weary men.’
(Herodotus)
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