I found this diary when I was clearing out a box of thing from my Dad’s. This appeared to be written by my uncle. It might be of interest
[Sept 10 1939] – I’ve got my wings! It was obvious a while back we were heading for a fight so I joined up to avoid being called up. The RAF seemed the best option. Father had been in the 14-18 shout in the RNAS until he got shot down and made prisoner. It sounded exciting flying a plane held together by string and glue.
[Sept 30] – posted to _. Not allowed to say where. We have had it drilled into us that “walls have ears”. I’ve been billeted with a couple of new chums to Lady P-s. Nice place, hope we are here for a while
[Oct 10] Not being very good about this diary lark. Seemed like a good idea to record the most exciting part of my life. Actually nothing much has happened and I have no idea what the future holds so I could be completely wrong. Spiffo (Flight Lieutenant Spliff-Whittington) says the Germans will bottle it now France and Britain have stood up to them. They will sign off. Meanwhile we wait around, visit the pub, eye the girls. A uniform definitely gets one attention.
Lady P took in some refugees before we arrived. There is a young Jewish family – well a girl and her two siblings (brother and sister). Parents had to stay in Germany of course. Rachel is 17, and has eyes that reflect a thousand years of persecution. I feel sorry for her and try and talk to her to cheer her up. Her younger brother and sister are treating the whole thing like a big adventure; best thing I imagine. Let’s see, then there is Chrysta (I think her name might be Christabel but she refuses to answer to anything but Chrysta), a land girl. Her family are all farmers it seems, up North somewhere. She has three older sisters so they have plenty of help on their own farm, so she volunteered and was sent here. Lady P’s estate is down to three old men now as the younger men have volunteered (or been persuaded to – Lady P is a stickler for duty) so a younger pair of hands is welcome. I have to say, from my point of view, the rest of her is welcome too. Chrysta is 25, bit old for me I suppose (I’m 20), but she’s nice to look at.
For the rest there are 8 other evacuees ranging from Angela (16) to David (4). They can be a handful but they look out for each other – some of the local kids weren’t welcoming. The mothers all stayed in London to help in the factories.
There’s also Missus Paxmore (Paxo – cos she’s an old bird and looks like she’s been well stuffed – God if she knew she was called that there would be trouble)
[Nov 9] Flying patrols now. We aren’t being posted to France (maybe I shouldn’t say that? I might tear out this page). We are being kept for coastal watch. Damn and blast! I bet that gives some information away too. If Jerry does come knocking I might have to burn this. No-one knows I keep a diary.
[Nov 11] Went to see Shanghai Express with Chrysta and Angela at the local village hall last night. Some people objected because Marlene Dietrich is German, but then she is one hell of a good looking girl. Slept badly, dreamt about her. Had to --- to get any peace.
[Nov 12] A couple of village louts were calling names after Rachel and Isaac. I clipped one round the head and he told his mum, who called his dad (who could double up as a tank if we needed more). I thought I was in for a pounding when luckily Rev. James came past and gave everybody a lecture on a) recognising who the real enemy was and b) being kind to those less fortunate than ourselves. Very CofE kind of sing-song talk, but I think his heart is right (and he got me off the hook).
[Dec 25] Allowed home leave, honestly I think I’d have preferred to stay at the aerodrome. Father was very downcast. On the way back from the pub two nights ago he said he thought everyone was underestimating Jerry. I respect him, I do, but he must be wrong. France’s army is huge, and the BEF is pretty strong too. We’ve been told we might be upgraded to Hurricanes in the New Year
[Jan 8] Still flying Daffys (Defiants), my gunner is Dick Quartino. Odd name, obviously Italian surname but he talks all apples and pears and cor luvver duck. As East End as they come. I’d miss him if I got a single seater but really, unless the Germans are flying bedsteads we would be outclassed I think. I’ve tried getting closer to Chrysta a couple of times, no chance. Shall I describe her? Well...
She’s not skinny, she’s a farmer’s daughter, well-fed, well-built. Brown hair kept shoulder length (to keep out the way). When she wears a skirt – only ever on a Sunday to church – you can see she has pretty good legs, again, not thin and spindly but shapely. But not fat! It is her chest, her bust I mean, that one notices though. I’ve seen her underwear (on wash day, Missus Paxmore saw me looking at the line once and shooed me away), she doesn’t wear anything to lift or enhance, that bosom is all natural and a man could get lost in those hills. She doesn’t walk in a sexy way, she strides, but somehow her ample hips still gyrate and her buttocks (in jodpurs when she’s taking out the plough horses) rise and fall and just give a tantalising slight wobble at each step. I try not to think of her at night – one thing always leads to another.
Last Sunday in the afternoon it was such a crisp, beautiful day I suggested we should all go for a walk. Even if the Jews couldn’t come to church with us, we could all appreciate Creation from the aspect of whichever God we worship. On the way back David (4 and a half) and Alice (5) got tired. I put Alice on my shoulders and Chrysta just swung David up too (onto hers). Then of course they were fine and wanted to play horses. We raced several times and I know for certain that Chrysta would have beaten me every time if she hadn’t let me win once – she was even kind enough to suggest I’d let her win the other times! She is so fit, she puts me to shame.
[Jan 15] Hurricanes! And ... Oh, well I shouldn’t mention this but again, might have to tear out the page. I went into the barn yesterday and Pimmers (Peter Pimms- Gieves) and Stokes (Sergeant-pilot Stokes) were, well they were embracing, passionately! They saw me and I saw them but I pretended I didn’t. They are both clearly prefer pink (as we used to say at school). If I told WingCo they’d be drummed out in shame – and Peter’s father is a minister of the Church of Scotland, he’d never live it down. I had to say something to show I wouldn’t tell. The best I could come up with was to tell them how the kids had made a den in amongst the hay bales and no-one could tell they were there. I said I’d had to warn them to be careful so it didn’t collapse on them. I hope they took the hint and made their own den.
Hurricanes! Only 5 so far, but it’s a start.
[Jan 18] I noticed Peter had a piece of hay in his hair, I take that as a good sign and don’t want to think anymore about it.
[Feb 9] I suggested to Lady P that I took Rachel to see the Will Hay film, she thought it an excellent idea and booked a whole row of seats and we all trooped down (since we were all going, Rachel had to come to look after her brother and sister). Chrysta sat at the far end, Angela and Missus Paxmore sat one third of the way in, then Lady P and finally Rachel and myself at the other end. I didn’t begrudge being so far from Chrysta, this was about trying to cheer up Rachel.
At first she just watched and barely cracked a smile, but no-one can resist that crazy Will Hay and I heard a giggle after 20 minutes. By the end she was laughing like the rest of us and Lady P and I exchanged a glance of satisfaction. It’s only a start but perhaps Rachel is starting to live a little again.
On the way home Chrysta walked with me for a while, Angela joined us. They both said they thought I was really nice to think of Rachel. As we went indoors after the children both of them leant over and kissed me, on the mouth!
[Feb 10] Don’t know why, after that good evening. I went to bed and found myself blubbing like a child. I think it was the thought of Rachel struggling up from despair after losing her family. And mine! I mean they are irritating, but I’d be lost without them. Young Dick put something in the last letter from Ma; he wants to be a pilot like his big brother.
[Feb 12] No sleep again tonight, but now I’m plagued with thoughts of Angela too, and even Rachel crops up in my dreams.
[Mar 9] No more kisses. Rachel seems happier which is good. Two days ago Lady P had to go upto London on ‘business’. I think there is more to her than we know. Yesterday Lucy (11) had her first menses. She was at school and started bleeding. The teacher (Mr Grumps – or Old Farty as the boys call him – or Mr Gumpling to give him his real name – 60+ and no more idea how to teach than I have how to pick up a girl!) just sent her home. Poor girl, she went to her room and wouldn’t come out, she was distraught. So today I suggested we had a party – a Lucy becomes a woman party. Mrs Paxmore was definitely not in favour, ‘girls troubles’ are meant to be kept secret; but to be fair to her she went along with it since the ‘committee’ (Chrysta, Angela and Rachel have become a triumvirate of planning, helping and organisation) thought it was a good idea.
Lucy was given a certificate to welcome her into womanhood and we all drank her health in apple juice. The younger ones just thought it was all a bit of fun. And everybody was happy again.
[June 10] It’s been a time, I got out of the habit of writing this. But now the war has come. Father was right, the Germans swept aside the French (and us – I probably shouldn’t say it but it’s true) like gnats. Are they invincible? I hope not, I guess we’ll find out soon. Rumours abound about invasion but Spiffo says they haven’t got the ships. Maybe he’s right this time. Now we all have Hurricanes but it turns out the Me109 is a better plane. I heard that the Hurricanes in France got slaughtered. The Spits did pretty good though. Amazing looking plane, not as robust as our Hurricanes though.
[July 12] Spending a lot of time sleeping at the aerodrome now, we fly almost every day. In one way I’m glad the waiting is over, but honestly? I don’t know how long we can keep up with this kind of pressure. I’m one of the old lags now! It’s my turn to look at the new replacements coming in and tut about their lack of experience. I’m a Flight Lieutenant, my parents are proud I think. They are typically reticent English, not effusive and enthusiastic. Dad worries of course, he knows that we have parachutes now, but also we fly higher and faster and the planes are proper killing machines; not the motorised flying bicycles of the last war.
Stokes got it last week, Peter went to pieces, seemed to come back after a day off (turned out a lot of people knew, or guessed, we all thought it was their business), then he went kind of crazy. Just diving straight in. He’s been sent off for R&R, we need his experience; but as WingCo said, we also need him alive. Of the team that was here when I arrived we’ve probably lost 30%
[July 15] So tired
[July 20] I know I’m not 100...
[July 32, no Aug 1] I’m losing concentration somewhat. Saw a German ME crash in flames, pilot couldn’t get out. Try not to dream anymore. Douglas was very lucky, he caught a burst and lit up. Also couldn’t get out but as he crashed into the ground the plane broke in two and the burning engine went one way, he went another. Pretty smashed up of course, but alive! That counts as lucky these days.
[Aug 30] (written long after) Two days after the last entry several things happened. I wasn’t even sure if I should record them, but I’m off upto Scotland soon to join a training squadron for a while. So here we go.
1) Lady P announced she had to go up to London apparently (I was at _ airfield of course). As it happens the week she was going for stretched into a month. Missus Paxmore and the three girls were left to run things.
2) I got shot down. Like I said, I was getting blasé, losing concentration. Getting lax. I dived on some bombers and misjudged the angle so I was in cross fire between two. I felt the bullet go through my leg, clean through. Nearly a flesh wound except it nicked the bone. Plenty of blood, I felt it start to fill my boot. The other gun got the screen and one bullet smashed my googles. Even worse. I could barely see and it was agony to keep my eyes open. And my crate was on fire. I kept it up just long enough to aim for a lake rather than crash on the village, then I bailed out and my eyes closed for slight relief. I came round in the hospital, eyes bandaged, leg felt like someone was hitting it with an ice pick.
WingCo came round and told me the plane had crashed into the lake as planned, put the flames out straight away. Also contaminated the reservoir. Locals less than happy as they have to have water bowsered in now until the lake clears itself of oil, fuel etc. Apparently not blowing their village to buggery wasn’t enough. Can’t please some people.
I asked what the future held for me. He told me they would give it a month to see how I was recovering. If I was okay (and the leg shouldn’t be too bad) then I’d be back. Training squadron put on hold.
Two days later I was discharged to the billet and being cosseted by an adoring public.
Mrs Paxmore kicked into mother hen mode and made lots of chicken broth, tomato soup, celery and broccoli soup. Soup and more soup. That kept the fluids up. Trouble was it has to come out again too and I could neither walk for a few days, nor see to walk. I felt pretty bad so it didn’t occur to me (nor apparently Paxo) that the girls were taking it in turns to see to such bodily functions. Later, when I could stand, they would escort me to the bathroom and – since I couldn’t stand unaided – hold me up whilst looking the other way. Even later it occurred to me that that was a little pointless since they’d been holding it for me a few days before!
They took turns reading to me until my eyes started to recover. They changed the dressings. The doctor said I was very lucky to have such attentive nurses. As I recovered I would breathe in the girly smell of healthy perspiration and lavender soap as they leant over me. I could tell their different natural smells.
After about 10 days I was recovering well, I could just about walk with a stick and my eyes were less swollen; I felt I would get to see again as well as ever.
Rachel was sitting with me one evening when I got to thinking what she (and the others) had done for me. Embarrassment at the thought of it switched rapidly to engorgement and I found (again to my embarrassment) the covers displaying a distinct bell tent shape half way down the bed. I looked up and saw Rachel also looking. I’m not sure then who was more embarrassed. We both pretended to look elsewhere, but of course the more I concentrated on not thinking about it, the more prominent it seemed to become. To not think about something you have to think about the very thing you don’t want to think about. At that moment it was doing some delightfully unspeakable things to this beautiful young Jewess in front of me.
Ironically, the display she had just been subjected to actually gave her confidence. Despite everything, she was a girl and a girl likes to think she is attractive. My rather basic physical signal demonstrated that amply. What followed was beyond my imagination.
Two days later is a day that will go down in my personal history, if not in the history of the world. Girls talk, and the three girls evidently had done a lot of that. They realised something. I needed some education about girls. And they set about providing this education in the same way they did every other activity, with rigorous, detailed planning and attention to detail.
First into the fray was Chrysta. One evening when I was lying in my bed, the children all asleep and the house silent, she slipped into my room in her night clothes. If I was surprised it was nothing to what happened next. She leant over and kissed me fulsomely and thoroughly on the mouth. “Open your mouth a little” she said, and did it again, this time our tongues touched as she let hers slip in between my teeth. I felt like I was being electrified! It was great. I put my arms round her and pulled her down, but she was still stronger than me. “Woah tiger! One step at a time! You’ve got a lot to learn yet.”
We spent an hour kissing, lips, eyes, cheeks, lips again. Soft barely there kisses, and firm thrusting kisses. Oh my, I’m getting excited just thinking of all this. And she wouldn’t let me do any more than kiss her.
Then she suddenly allowed me to caress her ... her chest. Over the pyjamas (oh, yes, she wears pyjamas, sensible, practical clothes for a farm girl) I stroked her firm breasts under her instruction. I thought my luck was in, but then she said “that’s enough for tonight, get some sleep”
For all her expertise, she clearly didn’t understand men quite well enough (or maybe she did). I had to -- before I could sleep. Another handkerchief needing to be washed.
The following night I waited in expectation. After dark the door opened and a girl (I could smell rather than see it was a girl) slipped in. But a different hand took mine, it was Angela! God she was only 16, how could I? But then she said “I’ve been sent to find out what you’ve learnt” And so I was tested on my technique at kissing. After 30 minutes, she murmured (and, I say this with total honesty rather than pride, her deep and slightly husky voice showed that I was doing it right) “you pass, you get to take stage 2” Which meant I got to stroke her young and distinctly pert breasts. I decided to try to extend the attack and slipped my hand through a gap in her night dress. Her breasts were warm and, if not as full bodied as Chrysta’s, now my hand was able to stroke her nipples. She jumped, then relaxed and made no move to shake free for fully another 20 minutes before whispering “you have to stop before we go too far”
I replied “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, next lesson tomorrow”
The next morning I was tired from not enough sleep. Even after -- I found myself dreaming of her young adult body entwined with mine.
That day was spent thinking about the girls, to be honest I was confused but quite enjoying the confusion. That evening Chrysta returned.
“I hear you moved the lesson along? Still there seemed to be no complaints. Remember she is only 15 though won’t you?”
“Fifteen!? I thought she was sixteen?”
“That’s what she told people, so she wouldn’t have to go to school with a bunch of children and share with in the big room with them. You know the three of us share? That’s why you can’t come to us, we come to you. But yes, 15, remember that; you get her pregnant and you are in deep, deep trouble” I was nodding in a way that I hoped showed I understood. “So, she wants to learn too, and you are a worthy subject to learn with, but don’t go too far with her”
With her? Maybe there was a chance for me with Chrysta after all.
She undid her pyjama jacket and let me stroke, caress, kiss and suck. Exciting, no, exhilarating as it was, she left me no illusions that this was other than teaching (though I hope she enjoyed the education she was affording me). “Yes, no, not like you are sucking a sherbert lemon. No! not like it’s an ice-cream either!” She opened my pyjamas “like this...” I found my nipples standing to attention! “Now try again, I want to enjoy this or we don’t move on”
Well, obviously I did improve because after a while she took my hand and slid it inside her waistband, “Let your hand go loose, I’ll guide you” She moved me hand down to her ... her place. And as I allowed myself to be guided she moved it in circles with varying amounts of pressure. Did I understand right? I thought women just ‘allowed’ themselves to have sex to please their men. “Ohhhhh, rub a little harder” Did they actually enjoy it? “yummmm, wider circles” I began to comprehend “Harder!, YES! Oh fuck!!!” My God! I thought only men used language like that. “Yeeessssss, don’t stop yeeeettttt. Ahhhhhhhhh”
It was most illuminating. I had learnt so much that one night from Chrysta. When my Dad had talked to me the night before I went away he’d said some vague thing like “Remember your duty to women in romance boy” Was that what he meant? I thought at the time he meant the opposite, like we’d been taught by Rev Bean at school, that anything below the waist wasn’t allowed before marriage. Now I’m not sure; father must have been young once.
Sleep came easier that night, not because I had achieved satisfaction myself but rather because I had been present at a moment of intimate ecstasy and I had been the executor. I could hardly be called the instigator as I had to be told what to do.
The following night Angela came to me. I was again to be tested to see what I had learnt. This was a harder test than the last. She had probably kissed before (I learnt later from Chrysta that they had indeed being practicing with each other in their own room! It seems girls can do this more safely than boys, or at least with more surety), but what was to happen tonight was without precedent for her. She assured me, when my hand went south, that she had never travelled that way herself. In one sense though, the test was easier. It would be more obvious if I had passed at least. It would still be upto her to say if I passed with merit, distinction or simply satisfactory. I aimed for distinction.
Having a nightdress altered the approach. I had opened the front to address her breasts, which she clearly enjoyed; but sliding my hand down would have been uncomfortable, whereas bringing my hand up produced an annoying bundle of fabric around her midrift. I finally solved the conundrum by sliding her nightdress off. In the dim moonlight she was entirely naked to my view. She quickly slid under the bed clothes and I saw the danger that Chrysta had luckily warned me off. As we cosied up, her naked flesh inflamed my passions and I could easily have proceeded to the coital conclusion that my loins desired. Once I began my ministrations to her lovely slim body I felt confident that Angela would have been happy to let me fill her secret places with myself. Even now, as I write this, after all that has happened, I find myself coy at describing what I did with this lovely fifteen year old nymphet.
Once again, for only the second night in my short life, I brought a girl, a woman to the extreme pleasure that I had only a day before learnt was available to female as well as male. She gasped in pleasure and I delighted in feeling her lower body become damp with pleasure. I allowed myself to explore just a little way into her with my finger. She gasped again but did not seek to stop me. Then she brought her hand down and took a second of my fingers and pushed that in too. Her pelvis moved in such a way that my fingers moved gently in and out. I repositioned myself to allow my palm to caress her outer whilst my fingers now caressed her inner. When she achieved ecstasy again I was delighted and surprised. In two days I had learnt that women could become uncontrollably excited like men, and that they could do it more than once!
She lay briefly quiet, breathing heavily. Her whole body damp with perspiration, I found myself kissing her little breasts and then her chest, stomach and, I don’t know why, her little damp forest at the apex of her legs.