Date: Wed, 26 Oct 2016 08:01:52 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige (revised) by Henry Hilliard with Pete Bruno

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101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No
reproductions are allowed without the Author's consent. (See full statement
at the beginning of Chapter One.)

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you're enjoying the story, I hope you stay tuned.

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Noblesse Oblige

by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno

Book 3
The Bells of Hell Go a Ting-a-ling-a-ling

Chapter 2
A Cross to Bear

"The trenches along the Somme are constantly filling with water.  We drain
them where we can by cutting little channels that make their way down to
the river.  When the rainfall is greater, the trenches fill up more quickly
as the watertable rises.  So too does the river level."  Stephen paused to
make sure Col. Young was listening.  "To stop the trenches from flooding
when the river rises, our sappers use sandbags and boards, which they
remove again when the river level drops.  We will soon be coming into the
period of heavy rain and high flows.  There is a great danger of our
trenches flooding.  If the Germans were to shell our simple sandbag levees
we'd be in real trouble; but so would they be if we shelled their drainage
system.  In fact they are more vulnerable; our trenches are only about 12
feet deep; theirs are much deeper and the flooding would be worse."  He
paused again for emphasis.

The meeting at St Omer had been arranged so that Lt. Knight-Poole could
explain his proposal to harry the Germans by flooding their trenches.
Major McGough, who had replaced Dibden who had died from his injuries, was
enthusiastic and had persuaded a group of tacticians to listen to Stephen's
ideas.  Thus Stephen found himself in the chateau at St Omer used as the
GHQ.  Somewhere-- in another room--sat Douglas Haig, the new
Commander-in-Chief BEF.

"I propose that we fortify our drainage locks with reinforced concrete
blast walls and try to disguise them from their air," continued Stephen.
Col. Young was looking out the window.  "I propose we target the enemy's
drainage when the river is at its height."  The party shuffled its feet.

"I have a second scheme," he said, indicating a large topographic map on
the wall. "There is a large depression by the Somme where winter flows can
be retarded before they threaten our trenches.  I further propose we
channel this water through tunnels to the German trenches--hitting them at
the same time that the river is allowed to flood back into their lines.
Some charges or landmines will begin the flood and the power of the water
will complete it."

Stephen could tell that he had not been convincing.  Major McGough gave him
a sympathetic look.  "If your scheme did work we would only be able to
advance to useless, flooded trenches.  The Germans would merely dig new
trenches to the rear, Knight-Poole," said Major Parr.

"That is true, sir, but we have made little progress over the last year
with our current tactics."  Stephen instantly regretted saying this, but it
was not news to this group of officers.

"I might as well tell you, Knight-Poole," said Col. Young, "that the
thinking now, under General Haig, is that sustained bombardment with high
impact shells to smash the German trenches followed by an advance across no
man's land by our forces in a disciplined manner will be the only way we
can capture territory and break the Germans.  I think that your harrying
tactic would be of limited effectiveness compared to improved shelling."

Stephen knew that he hadn't won his point, but was mollified by the fact
that Major Parr and Colonel Tucker would accompany McGough and himself back
to their position, which was now further south from where it had been by
the canal nearly a year before.  They would look at the flood-prone
landscape, but were most anxious to test a new cork bridge that had been
invented.

Stephen's group of Sans Culottes had suffered some losses, including that
of Lt. Fillbrook, and several men had been redeployed to other units to
make up the numbers.  Ten times they had been `over the top' with the
infantry in a general advance and twice they had captured German trenches,
only to be driven back. However, they were chiefly engaged in small,
night-time raids into no man's land where they cut the wire, using various
techniques, in preparation for an infantry advance.  It was terribly
dangerous and always Stephen went himself, suffering several flesh wounds
from stray bullets and making him highly regarded in the eyes of his men.

Only the week before he went up to St Omer, he had been with his men,
inspecting their feet and checking for lice.  The powder issued did not
seem very effective and typhus was rampant.  "There is new issue of
`Frenchies' men," Stephen announced, hands on hips, to the men who were
informally clustered about him.  The men giggled.  "V.D. is rife in all the
`houses' and I don't want any of you incapacitated or there will be charges
and punishment."  The men shuffled, thinking of their next leave.  "These
are a new type made of latex rubber."  He undid a packet and held up an
example, stretching it--something the older types did not do.  The men
looked on.

"How does it go on, Sir?" called out Jarvis.

"If I had a banana I would show you, Jarvis.  But it rolls on."

"I think I'll see my next fuck before I see my next banana" called out
Reeves.

"I seen a banana once" added Quick "or was it a norange?  Not many seen in
Salford."

"I still don't understand how you puts it on, sir," said Jarvis
disingenuously.

"Show us!" called out someone from the rear.

"Yes show us, Lieutenant!" called out West.

"Pipe down or I'll put you all on a charge!" admonished Sgt. Spinner who
was trying not to laugh.

"Go on, show us Lt. Foot," called out a cheeky fellow named Doling.  "It
will be an ejucashun."

Stephen looked at Spinner and then dropped his trousers.  There was a cheer
from the men. Stephen gave his big cock a few strokes and Jarvis went to
reach forward to assist him but a look from Sgt Spinner made him keep his
place. The prophylactic was stretched in both directions with West saying
that for his own cock it would not require such contortions, and Stephen
fitted it without too much difficulty and rolled it down.  The men were
allowed to look more closely. "Now fill it up, sir!" cried Rugg.

"That's enough!" snapped the sergeant and Stephen removed the rubber--
handing it to West--and fitted his member back into his army trousers.  The
men gave a cheer and set up a chorus of a ribald song one of them had
composed to the tune of Lily of Laguna, which glorified their commanding
officer and his big cock and balls.

Stephen dismissed the men thinking that discipline was now lost forever.




Stephen now led a similar group of his men who carried the cork footbridge
down to the river--a tributary of the Somme-- in open and dangerous ground.
Parr, McGough and Col. Tucker looked on from a safe distance, sharing a
pair of field glasses.  The bridge was unrolled and Stephen and six of the
men entered the icy water to try and stabilise the bridge as it threatened
to be carried away.  A group on the shore attached it at one end while two
others laboured on the bridge itself in an effort to unroll the remainder.

"These bridges are awkward things," said Tucker, "but a quick lightweight
structure is necessary."

"Lt. Knight-Poole has worked out a design for one with inflatable bladders
rather than those clumsy cork floats, said Major McGough, proudly. "You can
even pierce it with shots and it will still float."

"He's very clever; I'm sure," said Tucker, primly, looking intently through
the glasses. Suddenly he saw Stephen shout.  He had spotted a machine gun
nest on the opposite bank hidden among some bushes on a small hillock.

The other officers watched on helplessly, passing the glasses from one to
the other.  The Germans hadn't opened fire immediately because they were
waiting until Stephen's men where fully occupied and at their most
vulnerable.  Now fire raked the bridge.  The two men on it were hit.  They
dropped their rifles and fell into the water. Stephen dived beneath the
surface as the bullets hissed about him and swam under the bridge to
retrieve the two men.  They were bleeding profusely but he somehow pulled
them under the low-slung structure, which was in imminent danger of washing
away if the other five let go, and he held their heads above the water.
The Germans were now strafing he water and Stephen and all the men were
compelled to dive below the surface.  They moved under the bridge itself
for better protection and this made it difficult to hold.

The officers then saw Stephen make for the shore, towing one of the
bleeding men and two of the shore party risked fire by coming down to
retrieve him.  The remainder fired their 303 rifles at the machine gun nest
hidden in the bushes across the river for moral rather than effective
support.  Stephen swam back and retrieved the other man. He was weak from
loss of blood.  Stephen tried to shield him with his body as he swam.  He
felt a bullet pierce his shoulder.  The man was returned to the shore and
dragged to safety.

Stephen swam back again, not heeding the pain in his shoulder.  He checked
on the five still in the water.  One by one they swam back to the shore
leaving only Stephen holding on to the cork bridge, which had begun to
drift downstream, carried by the strong current.  He hid underneath.  The
firing of the machine gun kept up.  Stephen wasn't sure if the Germans were
aware of his presence or just aimlessly firing.  The bridge came to grief
on the German side some distance away and Stephen crawled cautiously out
from under it.  He felt his shoulder: Another flesh wound.  He was lucky.

The abandoned rifles were still on the bridge deck so he picked them up and
made his way back through the trees following the river upstream until he
came upon the machine gun nest.  There were only two men and they had not
concealed themselves very well from the rear--perhaps they were still in
the early stages of setting up their post.  Stephen moved from tree to
tree, his clothes dripping and squelching.  He wished Martin were here, for
he was a good shot with a hunting rifle.

Stephen squeezed off two shots in succession.  The second German didn't
even have time to look around.  Fearing that other Germans may be near
by--in fact it was odd that they hadn't arrived already--Stephen bounded
down to the nest and disabled the Maxim gun with his rifle butt--wincing as
he felt the pain in his shoulder-- then he dived into the water and swam
for the opposite bank where his men had already come down--some jumping in
and swimming out-- to form a reception party.

The officers had also come down to join them.  "That was the bravest thing
I've ever seen, Knight-Poole," declared Col. Tucker.

"Are you all right Stephen?' asked Major McGough."

Stephen didn't reply but simply said: "How are Myles and Pengelly?"


**** Martin had heard about Stephen's Military Cross.  He had read it in
The Times and several people had told him personally, but Stephen made no
mention of it in his most recent letter.  Martin had also read a
distressing news item in The Times headed: `Death of War Poet' and it
continued: `renowned poet Douglas Owens, better known as the poetess Nancy
Nott, died as the result of enemy fire at Bellyache Wood near Ypres...'
Martin sat at his desk in Whitehall and thought of poor Reuben.  Where was
he and what was he feeling, if indeed he knew of his beloved brother's
death?  He determined to go down to Croome where he hadn't been for nearly
six months.

There was no one to meet him at the station so he walked up to the house.
As he had been forewarned, a great storm had damaged the house and the
trees and indeed the elm avenue was a distressing sight.  He wondered what
he would find at the house.

Chilvers greeted him--enthusiastically if one knew the phlegmatic butler.
He looked fatigued and much older.  Uncle Alfred was down.  They had tea.
Sugar was rationed but Martin had given it up.  Afterwards Uncle Alfred
took Martin on a tour.  The devastation was much worse than he expected.
Much of the south wing had been destroyed. The roof had blown off and the
walls had been blackened by a lightning strike.  "We were lucky there was
no fire.  The servants managed to save much of the furniture and nearly all
the paintings," said Uncle Alfred, but a dozen bedrooms, the smoking room
and the billiard room had been destroyed.  Martin was upset but tried to
think what Stephen would do.

"I'm wondering if we should even rebuild it, Uncle," said Martin, now
standing on the lawn and looking back at the house.  "It was the least
attractive part when grandfather added it and the red brick doesn't match
the creamy stone of the older parts."

Uncle Alfred nodded. "It was the bachelors' wing--that was what we called
it and that was the way things were done when I was a boy.  We're never
going to need all those bedrooms again, are we?  If ever this war ends it
won't ever be the same again."

Now it was Martin's turn to nod.  "Yes, the best we can hope for is smaller
but more comfortable: less staff but electric light.  You know, that's a
nice stone wall revealed where the billiard room stood."

Martin took his bicycle down to the village and called on Titus Knight.
Martin had no news for him.  Titus knew all about Stephen's M.C. "and Bar,"
he added, but he had not seen him for over a year.

He called on Miss Tadrew.  Hughes was there.  "I'm dreading conscription,
your lordship.  Mrs Hughes has cleared off--did so when she got out of
prison--and if I'm called up there is no one to look after Tommy."

"It won't apply to you Hughes--not if it meant your child would have no
support.  I'm quite sure of that, but I'll check."  Hughes looked relieved
and Miss Tadrew smiled at Martin.  He had said the right thing.  Miss
Tadrew was invited to dinner at Croome and Martin remarked that the food
and coal shortages in London were worse than in Dorset.  However, the
lighting would be subdued as the electric generator was now run for fewer
hours each day and it was kept going by Mrs Capstick herself who had become
quite handy with a spanner and oil can.

Martin next went to the vicarage and saw Mr Destrombe.  He too was invited
to dine. The vicar took Martin over to Stephen's gymnasium, which had been
finished less than a year ago but had never seen a gymnast.  It had been
requisitioned for war work and Mrs Destrombe was in there with other ladies
rolling bandages and packing boxes for the Red Cross.  Martin still found
time to admire the little building and longed for Stephen to see it.

The new school was also completed but the playground was not.  It to had
been taken over by the Army and had been initially used for Belgian
refugees and was now a hospital, the children having to make do with the
crowded conditions in the old school, which had lost half its teachers.
Martin felt terrible about this.  He almost felt his efforts to get it
built had been wasted.

The hardest visit was to Owens, the chair bodger.  Martin did not know him
well and found it difficult to talk.  He began with some anodyne remarks
but Owens then swelled and said how proud he was of his son as a soldier
and as a writer.  Martin was taken aback at his eloquence and he found he
had great hot tears rolling down his own face, so moved was he by what the
old man said.  He promised to look out for Reuben when he returned to
France.

Before dinner, Martin went to see O'Brien who was with his young cousin,
Sean. They walked to the stall where Stephen's Aine stood patiently waiting
for her owner to return from war.  "We have made a small fortune, your
lordship," said O'Brien. "The Army buy all we can raise.  I do hope that
none of them are used by the troops back home, your lordship," said O'Brien
referring to the uprising in his native land.

"Neither do I, O'Brien.  One war at a time is still too many.  I would like
to see the Irish happy, as would most in Britain, but I'm not sure how that
will be achieved-- no doubt you have your own views--but violence and the
loss of men and beautiful horses is something neither side would want, I
imagine."

"Dat's true, your lordship."

At the little dinner Stephen's heroism was discussed but then the
conversation gravitated to the loss of life on the estate, including
Douglas Owens' death.  "We will need new cottages for war widows and those
who are incapacitated," announced Martin.  "No one must be put out on the
street, Mr Destrombe, even if they can't pay the rent."

"I was thinking of a memorial of some kind," said Mrs Destrombe, "Somewhere
where relatives can lay flowers.  It's hard for those whose loved ones have
died abroad and they need to be able to mourn."

Martin did not sleep well.  He missed Stephen in the big bed.  The next
morning the post arrived with his early tea.  There, in one of the letters,
was the most dreadful news.  Martin let out a groan that summoned Chilvers
to see what the matter was.

*****

Stephen was sitting in his dugout when he got Martin's letter.  He should
not have been surprised, but he still was.  He fought to control himself.
He read it again and the words swam before his eyes: `2nd Lt Christopher
Tennant was dead.'  Christopher who had survived the Dardanelles campaign
and had been successfully evacuated had apparently died of fever in Egypt.
"I should have been there with him," he sobbed to Carlo.

"How could you, sir?" replied Carlo in real distress, never having seen his
master like this before.  "You could not prevent a fever."

"I would have made it alright," continued Stephen in anguish, but not
really heeding what Carlo had said. "That's what I do.  Don't you
understand?  I told him that he'd be all right.  I told him about the
girl...the daughter of the vicar who played tennis and wore...you
know...things in her hair...that was supposed to be his life.  He was
supposed to be a country doctor--not this."

"I don't know about that, sir, no one in their right mind could have
predicted this."

Carlo put Stephen to bed.  He was crying for a long time and then he fell
silent.  He refused food.  Carlo sat by him for some hours.  The noise of
the guns was terrific for the big push on the Somme was underway.  Stephen
had had his men out all day extending trenches and forming breastwork.
Lt. Toomey came in.  He was very young and quite scared.  "What is the
matter with Lt. Knight-Poole?" he asked Carlo.

"He's not well," said Carlo.  "Fever."

The young officer looked alarmed and came over.  "He does seem hot.  Could
you leave us a minute, private, I want to have a word with him."  He shook
Stephen gently and Stephen rolled and opened his eyes. "Stephen, I have a
problem: I have to take my men out tonight and cut the wire.  I don't know
how many lines of it there are.  I can't see it clearly with the glasses.
Will there just be ours and theirs?"  There was a pause.  "And Stephen, I'm
scared."

Stephen held out his hand. "If you want to get into bed with me you know
the rules, Christopher."

"What rules?  You know my name is Patrick, Stephen.  Are you alright?"
Despite his disquiet, Toomey held his hand in silence for some hours and
felt better.

When it was dark Stephen suddenly sat up in his bunk, waking Toomey who was
still holding his hand.  "I'll come with you, Chris," he said.  "We'll cut
the wire.  Get Myles, Pengelly and Sgt Spinner."  The lieutenant rushed
off.

Stephen produced five pairs of bolt cutters--his own modified design to
cope with the heavy gauge of the German wire.  The men were assembled and
their faces were blackened.

Stephen led them by the traverses to the front line where the infantry were
to attack the salient on the morrow.  There was no moon but flares
regularly illuminated no man's land.  Stephen assigned them all a
section--only a few yards apart.  They would do twice this width and not
leave any wire standing in the gap. Stephen slithered over the parapet, not
wanting to block out the light from one of the loop holes that would draw
German fire.  His men followed and they made their way on their stomachs to
their own wire, which was easily snipped.  None dared talk and they waited
for noise to cover their own sounds.  The first opening was made and they
continued slowly for about 100 yards until they met the German wire.  Each
made a pair of cuts.  The wire twanged and they flattened themselves in the
mud.  They moved to the left.  Stephen hissed: "Landmine."  They
circumvented this metalwork and made more cuts.  They began to slither back
to their own lines.  Suddenly there was a flare and a burst of fire.  The
British trench returned it.  Stephen's face was illuminated in the sharp
green light.

"Run for it."

The men got up and bolted to their lines amid a hail of rifle shots.  Three
of them dived over but Lt Toomey had tripped.  Stephen went back.  He was
tangled in some stray wire.  Stephen laid flat and freed him then he pushed
him ahead and threw him over the parapet.  Suddenly Stephen found himself
in the air.  The world was sideways; the stars circled all around.  He
landed with a thud on the canvas roof of an improvised shelter in the
trench and a hail of earth and stones cascaded down after him.  He had been
thrown into the air when a rifle shot from the Germans had exploded a land
mine--- probably a British one-- near him.  He was dazed but alive.

*****

"Major McGough, sir," said Carlo saluting. "My mast...I mean
Lt. Knight-Poole is in a bad way sir.  It's not just the injuries, it's...I
don't know what it is exactly...but please order him home to Blighty for
some leave.  He hasn't been home for nearly two years. I'm afraid we'll
lose him at this rate."

"You were his valet in civilian life, is that right, Private Sifridi?"

"Yes sir, before that I was a steward on the liners."

"Were you ever on the Edinburgh Castle?"

"Oh yes sir, for many voyages."

"I thought so.  I have family in South Africa and made regular trips.  I
thought I recognised you--always chatting to the ladies you were."

"Perhaps I was sir--but not anymore," said Carlo.  "I am settled--or rather
I was settled until all this came along and I just want to serve my
master--I mean Lt Knight-Poole."

"No, Captain Knight-Poole."  He handed Carlo an order he'd been
holding. "Will you tell him or shall I?"

"Sir, I don't think you understand.  He is just beyond caring.  He rambles
in his speech.  He won't get out of his bunk and if he does it's only to do
something foolhardy.  I think he's lost his judgement, sir."  Carlo looked
beseechingly at the major.  "Could you please contact Col. Martin Poole in
Boulogne or Whitehall, I don't know where he is.  He will be able to get
the Captain out of here.  He's a lord.  That must still be good for
something."



Martin was indeed in Whitehall.  He worked furiously and even saw
Lt. Col. Churchill who had returned to England following his seeing action
on the front at Ploegsteert Wood with the Royal Scots Fusiliers and was now
at a loose end awaiting some political appointment that had not been
forthcoming due to his role in the Dardanelles Campaign.  "Asquith is
finished--like me," lamented Churchill as he took a glass of whiskey at
Boodles with Martin.  "I think sending a cruiser to pick him up might be a
bit much to ask, Lord Branksome," he said, now referring the Stephen, not
the Prime Minister, "but I think I have enough influence to get him brought
home in comfort."

Martin was suddenly alarmed.  "But of course he mustn't be treated
differently to any other soldier, Col. Churchill; he would never
countenance that."

Churchill rolled his eyes and laughed. "You can't have it both ways, Lord
Branksome. Let's just say that he's a hero like they're all heroes and will
be treated like all our soldiers should be treated."



Thus Martin found himself two weeks later in the wind and the rain down at
Dover when a military ferry docked.  He scanned the decks.  Then he saw
Carlo and waved. Carlo was beaming and waved back.  Suddenly there was
Stephen.  It was his tall, broad-shouldered, handsome self, except he was
on a stick and he looked ill.  Martin was suddenly worried.  They were
united and hugs were exchanged.  "Oh Derby, how are you?" asked Martin in
distress.

"All the better for seeing you.  Do you remember how I liked to surprise
you when you returned from school?"  Martin did and nearly broke down at
the redolence of the memory.

"Well I have a surprise for you," said Martin at last.  They crossed the
dock and there stood Martin's magnificent Rolls Royce Silver Ghost.
Stephen leaned on his stick and grinned for the first time.

"If I wanted danger I would have stayed on the Somme, Mala."  Martin looked
hurt but was pleased that Stephen had made a joke and a look from Carlo
indicated that this was a good sign.  "Mala, I hope you don't mind, but
could we give a lift to a couple of pals of mine.  I met them in Boulogne
and they could use a comfortable ride more than me.  Carlo will you go and
find them and ask if they would come with us."  Stephen was settled into
the car and a travelling rug was put around his bad leg.  "I was blown up
by a landmine," said Stephen by way of explanation.

"Derbs, I am so sorry about Christopher."

Stephen just bit his lip and nodded tightly.  Martin held his hand under
the rug.  Presently Carlo returned with two sergeants.  Stephen spoke:
"This is Sgt. Swane and Sgt. Louch; this is my friend, Lt. Col. Poole."
The two men saluted, despite having only a pair of legs between them.  "I
would like to say that I won their other legs at cards, but they fleeced me
to the tune of £10 over the three days we were stuck in Boulogne."

"Best three days of my life, sir," said Swane.

"Even without the money," added Louch

And it really was to them the best time in their lives, these two
characters that laughed and joked despite their horrific injuries, thought
Martin.  Stephen seemed to have worked his magic on them and once again
Martin was in awe.

The two sergeants lived not far apart in a dismal portion of South London.
When the magnificent red and silver car pulled up at their respective
houses it was immediately surrounded by children.  Stephen insisted on
escorting each one to their front door, meeting Swane's wife and Louch's
parents and sister.  Martin was also introduced and his job was to write
down all their details; Stephen would be in touch.

At last they arrived at Branksome House.  "I'm sorry Aine is not here;
she's down at Croome with the O'Brien's."

"I hope I haven't changed that much, Mala," said Stephen, "but it's you I
most urgently want to see."

The whole of the household was lined up in the hall to welcome Stephen
back.  He had a word for each of them.  Carlo could not restrain himself
and hugged Glass who was in tears.

"Could I have a cup of tea--without condensed milk?" asked Stephen in a
plaintive voice, but with a raised eyebrow. "And could I have it in my
bath.  I can't remember when I last had a proper one.  Come and look at my
injuries, Mala.  I look like one of The Plunger's paintings."

The bath was prepared and Martin and Carlo helped lower him in; he was a
very heavy young man.  Stephen had a number of wounds old and new over
which Carlo had a proprietorial interest and Martin let him explain the
origins of each one as they knelt beside the bath while Stephen contentedly
sipped his tea. "This one is quite bad," said Carlo caressing Stephen right
shoulder, "it's the MC one."

"And Bar" added Stephen.

"The leg is the tendons, my lord, so you can't see 'em, although there is a
nasty gash here he said rubbing his strong thigh.  That's from the
landmine."

"Derby, we are going to see the best doctor in Harley Street tomorrow."

"Of course there are the wounds you can't see," continued Carlo.  Both he
and Martin were gently soaping him.  There was a long silence as they
worked.  Then Carlo spoke with a voice that cracked with emotion: "The
wound in my heart would have been more than a `Blighty' one if anything
should have happened to him.  I was so worried your lordship.  I could
hardly dream we'd ever be back here.  It still don't seem real."  He broke
down in sobs.

Martin couldn't put his arm around him, because it was wet but he said:
"You're a good man, Carlo."

"Come on you two, stop that blubbing.  Now who's going to relieve the
troops? There's a bulging salient here."  Stephen's cock was rising in the
water.

"We both are, if that's all right with you, Carlo," said Martin.  "You know
we've been comparing notes, Derby."  More soap was applied and Stephen was
duly pleasured. Martin went, quite unashamedly, to put Stephen's cock to
his lips when he thought of Carlo's trials.  Stephen didn't mind who sucked
him of course, but Carlo was touched when Marin passed it over, like a
child's ice-cream cone, and allowed the first suck to go to Carlo who
seemed to draw some ill-defined nourishment from the action.

There was much laughter too and a good deal of splashing when at last
Stephen was allowed to spill, Martin and Carlo making sure their faces were
coated in his seed.

That night Martin was content, for he at last had Stephen in his bed.  He
had been going in for some trench warfare of his own and had been tonguing
the silky black hairs that lined Stephen's manly trench.  He had moved up
to his armpits where the same hair smelled of Stephen.  Suddenly he cried,
"Look" and Stephen's head turned to the uncurtained window. There, beneath
the clouds and somewhere south of the Thames, was a squadron of three
Zeppelins.  The low drone of their motors could be clearly heard.  The boys
got out of bed and, still naked, and stepped through the window onto the
narrow balcony over Piccadilly.  Martin stood in front and Stephen stood
pressed behind him with his hands clasped across Martin's belly and his own
Zeppelin between his thighs.  The sight was awesome as the huge ships moved
slowly across the city.  Suddenly there were the crossed rods of
searchlights, which captured the underside of the silver airships and
seemed to hold them there.  Aeroplanes could be herd approaching and the
airships rose from the clutches of the lights and disappeared into the
clouds.  The boys stood there waiting for the Zeppelins to reappear.  It
was not a cold night.

Suddenly there was a large red glow in the clouds. "Phosphorous bullets,"
said Stephen.

There was nothing more to see so the boys closed the windows and got back
into bed. "I love you, Mala," said Stephen "and I hate this war."

Martin just hung on tightly to Stephen, trying not to hurt any of his
wounds.  He lay there thinking as he felt Stephen's chest rise and fall.
The war had a way of reaching out to touch people with its long tentacles,
to injure, maim and kill them, near or far from home.  And there was no
hiding from it--even in a bedroom in the great metropolis of London, the
war stalked one from the air and was carried like an infection inside men's
hearts.

Martin at last closed his eyes and laid his head on the triangular patch of
silky black hair that along with the Military Cross (and Bar) was the chief
adornment of Stephen's magnificent chest and drifted off to sleep.

To be continued. Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or
questions, Pete and I would love to hear from you.  Just send them to
h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.