Death Row
- 2 years ago
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Desolation Row free porn video
A rather dark tale this. This is not a swift wham bam story, I’ve taken quite a time developing the story. Nevertheless, I hope that readers find it worthwhile.
Just to help any non-English readers. In those days there were 20 shillings in a pound. A shilling was also known as a ‘bob’. In 1945 the average annual wage was £370 and an average house cost around £1000.
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It was raining heavily the day that Billy Watkins came back from the war. The troop ship was crowded leaving little room under shelter. The grey sky, slowly undulating dark green sea and the damp all conspiring to quell any joy of returning home. Muttering darkly Billy leant on the rail in the rain watching, through the grey haze, the entrance to Southampton harbour gradually draw nearer. It had been a miserable journey across the channel from France and the sight of England was a pleasant relief. Billy shuddered as another drip of water slid down the neck of his soaked battle dress. He had worn the same battle dress for a year and it smelled disgusting. He longed to get rid of the filthy army uniform, get a hot bath and slip into some decent civilian clothes.
Apart from his uniform and his rifle, the sum total of his belongings were in his back pack. His mess tin with mug, knife, fork and spoon, two pairs of socks, pants and vest, wash gear, a diary, paper-back book and bible barely filled the canvas pack. Nestled in the bottom, in a black velvet box, lay his only valuable – his military cross. Although he would not agree, Billy was a hero. In a moment of almost insanity he had rushed a German machine gun post, killing 5 enemy soldiers and saving the lives of the men in his platoon. In reward of this service he received promotion to Corporal and a piece of silver in the shape of a cross hanging from a white and purple ribbon.
He had often pondered what had driven him to tackle the machine gun post. Any sane person would have pressed themselves to the ground in an effort to avoid the constant shower of high velocity bullets coming from the machine gun. Sanity didn’t play any part in his actions. Billy’s immediate reaction was to do whatever was necessary to prevent those German bastards behind the gun hurting him and his platoon mates. It wasn’t a case of courage just pure bloody minded aggression against those who dared to threaten his life.
Billy chose to forget the medal. After all, what use was a bit of silver at the end of the day? He had picked up a dose of shrapnel during his attack of the machine gun post which, while not being life threatening, had given him a dozen or so nasty scars over his body. He had been shipped home to recover from his wounds and receive his medal. Ever conscious of the benefits a hero had on morale of both the troops and the public, his superiors had fitted Billy out with a brand new battle dress before sending him to receive his medal from the King. Showing their profound gratitude for his bravery, his masters sent him back to the war a month later.
There was a big reception at Buckingham Palace after the awarding of medals. There had been around fifty men and women from all services receiving medals that day. Afterwards they were stood in the palace gardens meeting the great and good who had also been invited. Billy enjoyed the food and drink but desperately wanted to get away as soon as he could – he felt uncomfortable mixing with all these strangers. Most of them were in social class above him and he felt absolutely no connection with them.
It had been a privilege to receive his medal for the king but Billy had no time for the faceless men in suits who were also at the ceremony. As far as he could see, the majority of them were self-serving slackers who were more interested in promoting themselves than serving their country.
Billy noticed an RAF officer standing alone smoking a cigarette. He grabbed a couple of drinks from the table and walked over to the man.
‘Hey chum, fancy a drink?’ He asked, offering the man a glass. Billy was shocked as the man turned to face him. His face was a mask of lurid burn scars, his mouth a lipless gash. Billy had heard of the RAF guys like him who had been burned when their aircraft had been set on fire during combat. These guys were commonly known as members of the ‘guinea pig club’ – men who underwent experimental reconstructive plastic surgery.
‘You look like you’ve been in the wars,’ Billy quipped, using the graveyard humour adopted by most service men. The man laughed. ‘Yeah mate, I am a bit fucked up. My spit had an argument with a hill,’ he replied in an Australian accent.
‘Spit?’ Billy asked. ‘Spitfire, you know, fighter plane,’ Ray replied. ‘Don’t you fucking foot-soldiers know anything?’
‘No, we’re too busy wading through the shit and bullets,’ Billy grinned, he liked this guy. They sat on a low wall, lit cigarettes, and toasted each other.
‘Lost comrades,’ Billy said, raising his class. ‘Lost comrades,’ the man echoed.
‘Billy Watkins,’ Billy said, holding out his hand.
‘Ray McIntyre,’ the man replied, shaking Billy’s hand firmly. ‘Are you a scouser?’ He asked.
Billy nodded, ‘and you, you sound Australian?’
‘Close mate, New Zealand.’
‘Oh sheep shagger, eh?’
‘Don’t knock it until you try it,’ Ray laughed. ‘At least they don’t expect you to marry them afterwards.’
‘So what you think of all this,’ Ray asked, after a moment, vaguely waving his hand in the direction of the crowd.
‘Load of bollocks really mate,’ Billy replied. ‘I can’t be arsed with all this medal crap.’
‘Yeah, it’s a fucking dead who should get the medals,’ Ray replied bitterly. ‘I would rather have been somewhere else today, but I figured maybe I should be here if only for those blokes who didn’t make it.’
At that moment a man in a well-tailored suit came up to them.
‘Good afternoon gentlemen. I’m Humphrey Westinghouse,’ he announced, pompously. ‘It would give me great pleasure to shake the hands of two of our heroes.’
The man held out his hand towards Billy. Billy chose not to shake it. He immediately saw something he didn’t like – a man who was obviously wealthy, no doubt considered himself to be a class above the likes of Billy and Ray, and was doing very nicely thank you without contributing to the war effort. In other words, a sponger.
‘And what the fuck do you do, Mr Westinghouse?’ He asked, his voice revealing his dislike for the man.
‘I’m the member of Parliament for the constituency of Lower Appleton on Marsh,’ he replied grandly.
‘And what do you do, Mr Westinghouse?’ Billy asked again.
‘I’m not sure I understand you young man,’ Westinghouse asked nonplussed.
Billy shook his head in despair.
‘Are you stupid? What exactly are you doing to help this country win this war?’ He asked.
Westinghouse spluttered, unsure how to reply. ‘I think you should show some respect for your betters,’ he replied, deciding finally to go on the offensive.
‘So you think you’re better than me? Billy asked. ‘Obviously I was taught better manners than you, let me give you some home truths. You might think that you’re superior to me but like it or not all men are born and die equal. If you can’t handle that then that’s your problem, not mine. Respect has to be earned and the only way you can earn it is by showing that you’re man enough to make sacrifices for this country. Look at Ray,’ he said pointing at Ray. ‘You can see the sacrifices he has made. Look around at all the servicemen and women here. They’ve all made sacrifices. You can see in some cases what they sacrificed, in others you can’t but it’s there, believe me.’
‘And what sacrifice have you made?’ Westinghouse asked, trying to gain the upper ground.
‘Well if you’d been listening during the ceremony you would have heard the citation when I was awarded my medal. Or maybe you couldn’t be bothered to pay a
ttention.’
‘Have you had any active service? Have you killed any of the enemy? Do you even sit on any important committees involved in helping us win this war?’ Billy asked, pointedly. ‘What exactly have you sacrificed for this country?’
Westinghouse’s face was red with bluster and embarrassment. Quite clearly he had no acceptable answer for Billy. ‘I… I…,’ He attempted to reply before Billy turned his back on him.
‘The day that you stop being a fucking fat-cat leech on society and you start fighting for the country, is the day that you will be entitled to earn our respect. Now piss off and leave us alone.’
Westinghouse slunk off like a whipped dog, looking for someone else to annoy.
‘Fancy going somewhere decent for a drink and a chat?’ Billy asked Ray.
Ray gave a final look at Westinghouse. ‘Nice one, mate, that bloke’s a right cunt. Let’s bugger off and find a pub, the air is a bit nasty here.’
‘Fucking cunts,’ was Billy’s immediate response when he received his orders to return to the front.
——————
Billy had been an orphan his whole life and had been consigned, as a week old baby, to an orphanage in his home city of Liverpool. He knew nothing about his parents. All he knew was that he had been abandoned on the step of the main hospital in Liverpool. The nuns who ran the orphanage had made the life of the orphans hell with a harsh regime of beatings and cold baths. How anyone who allegedly served god could act so evilly was a mystery to Billy and the experience destroyed any belief he might have in a god. Billy hated the place and had joined the army in 1938 when he was sixteen. Billy was tall for his age and having matured early already had a dark jowl. He had little difficulty in convincing the recruitment officer that he was 18.
Billy was hard – the orphanage had made him that. He enjoyed a good scrap and soon got a reputation for being someone to be feared. No-one in the orphanage could compete with Billy’s fists in a fight. Don’t think for one moment that Billy was just an ignorant thug, quite the contrary. He was an intelligent man who was a good and loyal friend. Paradoxically, if you crossed him, Billy would be tireless in getting revenge. In effect he was a man of two extremes. He was a man of strict and unbending morals – he was unforgiving to those who crossed him but he would defend the helpless without reservation. If you think about it the tough regime in the orphanage was guaranteed to produce men of extreme natures. There was no way you could survive if you were not prepared to handle yourself.
Billy was a quiet, taciturn man who kept his emotions to himself and appeared to be reserved. Having not received any affection he in return found it difficult to show affection.
In an attempt to curb his aggression, the nuns had allowed him to attend a local gym where he learned to box. He quickly achieved a good amateur status but more importantly, he learned to control his anger and aggression. If anything, this made him a much more dangerous man. He was a man who could react with violence without giving any indication of his intentions.
The life in the orphanage had failed to develop his social skills and his experience with women was non-existent. The boys and girls were kept segregated in the orphanage, the last thing that the nuns wanted was inappropriate contact between the sexes. Any attempt by the orphans to mix was dealt with severely.
He was shipped out to Altcar training camp just north of Liverpool the day after he had signed up. The camp was a miserable group of Nissen huts on top of a bleak hillside near the beach. The almost constant rain added to the grave bleakness of the place. Billy shared a hut with 19 other recruits. The guys came from all walks of life but generally shared the same basic background – that is of being young guys without any real permanent employment, filled with the excitement and anticipation of travelling abroad and the possibility of getting involved in the war.
They were under the command of a miserable bastard of a sergeant who spent his time screaming and shouting at them and telling them what a load of useless bastards they were. Their training for the most part involved running about over the sandhills getting fit, dragging themselves through muddy ditches and barbed wire, digging trenches, learning to shoot and stabbing bales of straw with their bayonets while screaming at the top of their voices.
One Saturday they were given an unexpected treat of an evening pass. Eight of the guys including Billy went to a dance in Bootle, a northern suburb of Liverpool. Naturally a good time was had by all with most of the guys getting drunk on the local beer, dancing with the local girls, and in several cases having a quick fuck in the alley behind the dancehall. A few fights broke out, but that was quite normal for Bootle on a Saturday night.
Billy was at a loss at the dance, not really knowing how to approach the girls that were dancing. He had had a couple of pints which had helped him to relax but this hadn’t eased his shyness. Suddenly he noticed a pretty, petite girl with wavy brown hair, sat in a corner, nursing a glass of orange squash, a typical ‘wallflower’. She appeared to be too shy to be able to approach any of the men in the hall. All his mates were either dancing or chatting up girls and he finally worked up his courage and approached the girl.
‘Are ya’ dancing?’ Billy asked using the well-established opening chat up line.
‘If you want,’ the girl replied blushing slightly.
When it came to dancing, Billy had two left feet. Fortunately Maureen, the young lass, was quite skilled and was able to guide him through the dances without too much embarrassment. After a few dances they settled down in a corner to chat and enjoy a drink. Maureen was about Billy’s age and proved to be equally socially inept and soon also proved to be a naive and guileless girl. The two of them hit it off although it’s probably fair to say that the attraction was more a desire for company than actual love. The tensions in Europe and the possibility of a war had imposed an urgency on young folk. In the case of the men there was the uncertainty that they may be leaving the country never to return and equally the young women feared that having met someone they may never see them again. This tended to make young couples live for the moment and not worry about the consequences.
Billy and Maureen were no different and they married a week later.
Maureen worked in a shop and their combined income was relatively small. Fortunately they found a small, rented, ‘two up – two down’ terraced house in Kirkdale, just outside Liverpool.
Billy had two days special leave for the honeymoon during which time they simply stayed in bed fucking like rabbits. Their sex life was simple – both being virgins on their wedding night, but they were content and satisfied.
Billy was stationed just outside Liverpool. They had just over a year of happily married life when war was declared in September 1939. He was shipped out to France in December 1939. Maureen stood waving off at Lime Street station shouting that she loved him and that she would be there when he returned.
The war had changed Billy. Fighting doesn’t just involve taking pot shots at an unseen enemy, it gets much more personal than that. Billy remembered clearly the first time he had to kill an enemy from close quarters. He had jumped into a shell hole only to find German soldier pulling a grenade from his belt. Billy threw himself onto the man desperately hoping to stop him from pulling the lanyard from the handle of the grenade. He smashed his fist into the man’s face and grabbed him by the throat. Fear and adrenaline gave him strength and he squeezed hard. The image of the dying man would never leave him: The bulging eyes as he squeezed the soldier’s neck. The gust of foul breath from his mouth as he struggled to survive. The st
ench of shit as he gave his final living spasm. His enemy had been a real person, a son, a brother, a father.
Billy returned from war a harder, less sympathetic man. He proved time after time that he was a demon in a fight. He didn’t care how he did it, he always finished off his opponent. Then there were the dreams. No matter how hard he tried, Billy would be plagued by bad dreams for the rest of his life. The sound and sight of his mates dying. The look on the faces of his victims as they died. So many times he awoke in a cold sweat, screaming.
—————-
‘Bloody typical weather,’ Harry Peters muttered in his cockney accent as he joined Billy by the rail.
‘Want a fag?’ he asked, offering Billy a cigarette.
‘Players!’ Billy exclaimed, ‘where did you nick those?’ It made a change to have a decent smoke after the crappy French fags.
‘That’s for me to know, mate,’ Harry grinned, tapping the side of his nose with his index finger.
Harry wasn’t actually a ‘mate’ of Billy’s as such any more than most of his army comrades had been real mates. Harry was an idle bastard who had done as little as possible when they had been in combat. Harry was always last to volunteer and he avoided all the crap jobs such as digging trenches, foxholes or latrines. He was tolerated by his comrades but no more than that. When in combat, Harry was equally reluctant to get involved. He would always be last going into battle. Harry had been one of the guys Billy saved when he won his medal. Ever since Billy had saved his life, Harry had made it his mission in life to look out for his mate. ‘Anyone who would risk death to save my sorry arse has got to be special,’ he once said.
Harry was a fixer. He had an incredible knack of laying his hands on anything. While most of their comrades in arms had to settle for army rations, Harry always managed to ‘liberate’ decent food for him and Billy to eat. Billy learned early on that it wasn’t smart to try too hard to find out where Harry got things. There was a dark side to Harry.
‘So are you going back to Liverpool?’ Harry asked him. ‘If not, why don’t you come to London with me? I’m sure we can sort you out a job and digs.’
‘I think the missus might have something to say about that,’ Billy replied with a grin.
‘You fucking married?’ Harry replied, surprised. ‘You kept that quiet.’
Billy had never been one to discuss his personal life and had never mentioned that he was married.
Their debate was suddenly interrupted by a loud voice shouting the odds to a group of soldiers stood by a lifeboat.
‘Bloody Sarnt Barras,’ Harry muttered, ‘I hate that bastard.’
Sergeant Barras was a bully. Unfortunately he was a high ranking bully meaning that he could do what liked with impunity. He was of a breed of NCO which believed that life in the army was subject to one over-riding principle, the constant buffing, cleaning and polishing of army kit known as ‘bull’. They had lost count of the nights between combat when they had been forced to ‘bull’ their kit rather than getting badly needed rest.
‘Don’t sweat it mate,’ Billy told him, ‘in a couple of hours we’ll be civvies and you can tell that bastard to fuck off.’
Harry gave a broad grin. ‘Dead right old son.’
——————–
Billy was well off beam if he thought that they would be demobbed in a couple of hours. The process of demobbing involved checking their records, receiving returned kit, payment of earnings due and the issue of a demob suit. Given that 2000 men got off the troop ship and the army’s ability to take two hours to do a job when it should only take one, it was nearly 6 hours before the two men emerged onto the dock road, washed and dressed in their demob suits.
‘Fuck me you look smart,’ Harry grinned at Billy.
It had been a long time since he had been out of uniform and even the cheap navy blue suit and white shirt felt luxurious. Add to that a blue trilby hat, his black shoes and a brown rain coat and Billy felt on top of the world.
Alma
- 16.05.2020
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