Sleeping With the Enemy
Careless Talk Costs Lives: A Love Story set in World War 2...
Author Note: To anyone under forty years old it must seem like an eternity since Great Britain was gripped in the throes of the second world war. I was born in the late 60s and grew up next to a field housing bomb wreckage. My dad and uncles had fought in the war, so even though by the time I was playing out it had been thirty years since the war had ended, there were so many reminders all around. I think this is why, even though I don’t think war is the answer to anything, I still like to show my respect to those who have been touched by war. This story is my tribute to them - whatever side of the gun they had to face. NB: The historical facts about Netly and the aeroplane are correct.
Careless Talk: Short Story
Settling down cross-legged in front of you I whisper your name, Josef. So long on the tip of my tongue — my mind wanders back to the start…
When war broke out I was nineteen. Father forbade Alfie, my older brother, to sign up. ‘The farm needs him’, he said. Alfie adhered to his wishes until April 1941, then joined the RAF saying he was sick and tired of the Germans bombing us. Immediately he was posted to Lincolnshire for training, far from our Hampshire home.
“Now Mary, with your brother gone, you’ll have to help out a bit more in the fields. Be a land girl at home,” Father chuckled, pleased with his little joke.
“But tomorrow I’ve been invited out! I’ll feed Meg and Jo — can’t the fieldwork wait until Monday?”
“Go on then, since you’re doing such a grand job with those lambs.”
The following day David Sinclair parked outside hooting his horn for attention.
“Mother, I’m off now, bye,” I shouted, running down the steps to a bleating chorus from the lambs. I jumped into David’s Humber and away we sped. Finding a secluded spot on the edge of the New Forest he produced a picnic basket and blanket from the boot. It was a glorious, sunny mid-April afternoon. We ate egg sandwiches and sipped hot coffee from the thermos. After lunch I lay back, the sun warming my face.
David laid next to me and his fingers crept under the hemline of my dress.
“Got some stockings and chocolate for you in the automobile. Next week I should be able to wangle some bananas for your parents.” Stroking the skin just above my stocking tops as he spoke.
“Wonderful. They’ll be thrilled.” I murmured.
“Oh Mary, your skin is so soft, let me play?” His breathing was audible as I opened my legs slightly in reply.
Arranging himself, he rolled on top and clumsily steered his hard dick past my French knickers, orchestrated by a long groan.
I kept still, staring at the passing clouds as he buried his face against my neck. It didn’t take long. A few thrusts, he peaked and fell onto me.
Then, standing he carefully disposed of the used rubber, slicked down his hair, adjusted his sleeveless pullover and put on his jacket.
I knew David from the village chess club. He was an assistant manager at the town bank, a protected occupation like farmers. A man in his position could get all kinds of heavily rationed goodies. Light relief and a few treats were appreciated by everyone during the blitz when the bombing raids would have us scampering for the Anderson shelter and leave our nerves frazzled. Hampshire was so badly hit it looked like a train wreck. After an attack, the air smelled so sweet and smokey you could taste it.
David had pursued me before the war. I reminded him of Jessie Matthews, he said, with my rosebud mouth and pink cheeks. I hadn’t seen the attraction of letting him court me then. He looked well enough. Kept himself trim — expensive flannel suits, a nifty thin moustache. But he was old, maybe thirty-two. The war changed all our lives. I can’t deny I liked nice things, he could give them to me, and did. Perhaps my behaviour was a little flagrant in those days but all the young lads were off fighting, and I wasn’t after love any more than David.
Sitting up, I finished the food and rearranged my knickers.
“But you must understand Mother, I just want to do my bit for the country. You did and at Netley in the Great War. Please talk to Father,” I put on my little girl voice. “I won’t even need to move away.”
Netley hospital being close to our farm.
“Don’t whine Mary. I’ll speak to him. Netley was an experience I… I can’t forget. Are you sure you’ll be able to cope, my dear? You have a knack with those lambs but nursing will be a whole different kettle of fish. Horrible injuries, deaths, not to mention the — Netley smell — it lingers through the hospital. By no means easy.”
Fortunately, a local lad started helping out on the farm. Paving the way for me to become a nurse.
Netley covered two hundred acres, a vast community behind high walls. Work was harsh, messy and bloody, but at least I was finally doing my bit. After my basic training, however, I was posted with the POWs which made me a little resentful, thinking of my brother.
Not only that, our boys were billeted in temporary shelters in the grounds while the Germans were cared for inside the building. As prisoners, they needed a secure environment. Locals were outraged, and at one point the shipyard workers even went on strike in protest.
Witnessing the injuries was an eye-opener, and gradually my viewpoint changed. If my brother ever became a prisoner of war and needed medical attention, I prayed he would be treated with compassion like these men.
New recruits learned on the job. I’d only been working a few weeks when, at the end of a shift, I caught you alone playing chess. There was a serenity in your expression that drew me over and I couldn’t resist challenging you to a game. I’d been the grammar school champion and at Netley, we were encouraged to help the prisoners feel at ease while recuperating. But I could never have foreseen, Josef, how our meeting that day would change my life forever.
Your English was excellent. We were both competitive and intent on winning. Distracted by our small talk, I’d miss your nimble fingers manoeuvring a chess piece. I did notice your forearms were heavily scarred. Burned, I guessed.
I’d spent a very pleasant time being beaten by you and wanted revenge. It wasn’t long before I got the chance. I was assigned to your ward and we happily reacquainted. You had indeed suffered extreme burns. Luckily your face hadn’t been marked, and your blue eyes still twinkled as you smiled.
I heard your story — how the Messerschmitt had crashed near Derby and you only just escaped the fireball of the wreckage with severe burn damage, mainly to the upper body. On admission, the doctors said it was touch and go whether you would live. Now on the road to recovery, you were allowed to wear hospital undress — a blue suit with a red spot on the back. This gave the armed guards a target to aim at if a POW tried to escape.
I’d never met anyone like you. Intelligent, self-assured, with a quick wit to match your charm. At the end of a day, we’d be deep in conversation, learning about each other’s lives. Do you recall, Josef, how you’d often tease me about the uniform I had to wear? The pinafore was not very flattering. At dusk, the whole hospital would be swaddled in a blackout. The urgency we felt to engage was enhanced by the darkness and dim candlelight.
I’d watch the shape of your lips moving as you spoke English with a German accent. When being inquisitive, you’d often meaningfully stroke an eyebrow. You were extremely curious about where I lived and my daily routine. But I didn’t miss a trick where you were concerned either.
Sometimes we sat so close, on the sofa or playing chess, that I could feel the warmth of your breath and longed for us to kiss. You’d look at me as if no one else existed. In my head, we were already naked. Yearning to soothe and caress your wounds, I couldn’t help wondering how badly your body had been marked by the flames. When we accidentally touched my skin would tingle with excitement and my sex would clench, wishing to trap yours.
At night, I would visualize your long fingers tracing the outline of my body from the nape of my neck, around the curve of my ample breast. Passing over my waist before sliding across my hip to tug at the curls covering the swell of my mound, and following the damp slit into my centre.
With this image in my head, I used my own hand to bring myself the pleasure I longed to take from yours.
David called by. I explained things were different now and I preferred painting lines on the back of my legs with an eyebrow pencil and had given up chocolate. He left.
The very next morning I was heading to the village bus stop when suddenly I was grabbed and roughly pulled behind a hedge. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest as fear and adrenalin helped me wrestle myself free before realizing — it was you.
Wide-eyed, sweat glistening on your forehead, you stuttered through the drama of your escape, hidden in the back of a hospital delivery truck. Shaking, you explained that our talks, my words, had provided all the details you needed to find the farm. My mouth became dry. I was shocked, speechless, but I had to trust you, as you had trusted me.
Just on the outskirts of our land was a barn. Deserted and derelict. Father had always meant to knock it down. It would do for now so I took you there.
That evening I brought supplies including some of my brother’s old clothes, a camping stove, and tea. It was comfortable. Then we kissed. Oh… how we kissed. I crept back to the house, terrified of raising suspicion, promising to return at dawn.
The sun rose, bright and warm, do you remember? I arrived early and once more you teased me,
“Tea, what is this tea you English girls like to drink so much? A Ger — Man, needs coffee, and make it strong.”
“Huh, so demanding, a fine way to behave when this English girl loves you.”
The words just slipped out. I don’t think I’d even considered it before. But the moment I made the declaration I knew it was true. You held me tight. My heart began to gallop. Or mouths met, searching, and together we fell onto the makeshift bed of straw, covered with an eiderdown, as you undressed me. First my blouse. Then removing my bra you looked down and sighed. Finding a nipple, biting gently, sucking. I wanted to see you. Your scars, imperfections — your truth. I reached for a button, but you stopped me.
“Please,” I murmured, longing for intimacy.
Looking straight at me you removed the shirt. I gazed at the white and charred lesions covering your torso and started to kiss them all better. Then I gently touched and stroked the tender skin. To me your flaws were beautiful. I was so enchanted I didn’t realize you were crying, silently. Tears streamed, creating pools by your mouth. I licked the salty water. Tasting your hurt and taking it away. No more pain.
We hurriedly removed our remaining clothes and I mounted your hardness right where you sat. Slowly, lowering myself as you pierced into the heart and soul of me. Knees either side, able to manoeuvre for our pleasure and see your face all the while. Now it was I who had tears. They were of happiness. Never had I been so full of joy. Our coupling was right, meant to be. We fitted together, our bodies each an instrument for the other. Whispering to me in German, forgetting yourself in those moments, you cupped my breasts with your beautiful hands. When it was time we reached ecstasy together, clinging, two bodies merged into one.
We lay, caressing and talked about the future for as long as we could. I wanted us to be together. But caring for you deeply I ignored my selfish desires, understanding you needed to be free. After the war things would be different.
I had lived by the coast all my life and knew people who worked there. I planned to find someone, anyone, who could get you across the channel. As I left for work, hope danced in your eyes.
At Netley, all the talk was about your disappearance. I kept my head down until the shift was over then dashed to the port. I found an old boyfriend who worked the tugboats. He agreed to hide you in a ship’s hull until arrangements could be made. We were to meet him at eleven p.m.
It was a moonless, still evening, providing “additional cover,” you said, as we started across the fields. We should have been more observant. More careful.
Two guards from Netley… We didn’t notice them, but they saw us. One shone a torch onto your face. Panicked, you ran.
“Stop, or we shoot!” He yelled.
I heard the shots ring out! Two in quick succession and saw you fall.
Finding my legs I ran to your side. But you were already gone. Smothering your body with mine - weeping hysterically - I lashed out, not wanting the guards to touch you.
Eventually, I was literally dragged away, sobbing. Heart broken.
It turned out some of the Netley staff had noticed our friendship. The guards had been sent to see if I could offer any clues regarding your whereabouts. We had been so unlucky with the time.
I was questioned, released, and don’t remember much that followed. I could see only darkness and slept around the clock. Father lectured me about careless talk, explaining I could have been put in jail. He didn’t understand — you were my love, we had been cheated. Mother stood by me. She sent me to stay with Aunt Stella in Devon.
And… that’s where I gave birth to Evelyn — she has your eyes.
Adoption was suggested, but I would never have let Evelyn go; she was my reason to live. I helped out on the farm. Father was happy, and Evelyn won everybody’s heart.
My brother came home in the Autumn of 1945, just a short while before yours found me. Franz thanked me for trying to help you. He’d tracked me down from the records held at Netley. The first thing he said when he laid eyes on Evelyn was,
“Josef.”
She’s growing up fast and looking so like you. As does Franz. It wasn’t difficult to learn to love him.
Now, I’m sat here by your small headstone, the best I could afford, looking back on all that happened. My careless talk, your life. I’ll never know if you actually loved me, but Franz does and wants us to be married so he can take care of Evelyn. It’s the right thing to do. I miss you every day, Josef, but with hope in my heart, it’s time to move on.
I ask for your blessing.
Here is another WW2 story — by Marsha Adams
Beautiful story.
Such a beautiful tribute. I'm with Marie, wiping away tears right now.