Date: Fri, 3 Mar 2017 19:44:19 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Off the Magic Carpet 2

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/off-the-magic-carpet/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between young-adult and adult men. Go away if any of that is against your
local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but
flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

Special note for this story: This is a completely fictional story with a
physical setting as accurate as I can make it. There is no actual farm
where I set this and, as far as I know, never has been. If you live or
lived on the lands discussed, or know anyone who did, it is absolutely not
about you or them.

*****

So Parker and I (and, we mistakenly assumed, Flank) were off to the greener
pastures of home. The constant rain (and beauty) of southern Germany was to
become forever part of our past. The scents of cyclamen and kattfot and
glockeblume would soon give way (for me at least) to the phlox,
brown-eyed-susan and goldenrod of the Kansas plains. I had orders taking me
to Dunkirk and then Southampton aboard the USS Lake Champlain. Both the
other were headed to La Havre, ships TBD at time of arrival. It was oddly
formal and sad the way we shook hands at the railhead. The end of a
friendship of sorts. The end of a war.

*****

Off the Magic Carpet 2: The Champ & Homecoming

By Bear Pup

M/M; brief sex scenes but mainly plot

The Champ (what we all called the USS Lake Champlain *before* we were
onboarded) was an aircraft carrier who had never seen an aircraft. She hit
the water nearly a month to the day after Hitler blew his brains out. In a
frantic effort, she was refitted to carry humans. Airplanes weigh a LOT and
their fuel weighs even more, so it could be re-kitted to accommodate
thousands.

And in typical Army fashion, every one of the thousands was made as
miserable as possible. The cramped below-decks were crammed with towering,
rickety banks of privacy-free cots. That made the flight-deck tent
encampment treasured real estate... until the first Atlantic storm when
they became purgatorial. So, just over a thousand horny young guys finally
headed home to girlfriends and wives, pack together so tight that there was
always a crotch or ass in your face? Setup for the most epic fuck-fest in
history, right?

Wrong! Hygiene is not easy on a ship meant to hold a couple hundred
mechanics and flyboys and now transporting over a thousand guys. So what
you got was the über-sexy aroma of crotch-rot, damp feet and farts, with
an overlay of the inescapable by-product of seasickness. I doubt I even got
a chubby on the whole, torturous passage. Luckily, The Champ (renamed The
Chimp Cage in honour of its delightful aroma) was the fastest ship on the
Atlantic at the time, making the crossing in just four and a half days.

HOME! FINALLY! ...nope. Norfolk was a naval station with tenuous rail
linkages intended to bring raw materials to the port, not men from it to
the far-flung reaches of the US. It took just over four days to get 3,600
miles from England to Norfolk; it took me eleven days to get the 1,300
miles from there to my Kansas home. Norfolk to Kansas is roughly a due-west
journey. Over half the train-trips I took, however, were north- or
south-bound. Sigh.

Finally, we got to Newton, Kansas, the end of the (official) line. There
were about 30 of us getting off; the rest of the train heading to points
south, mainly Oklahoma and Texas. As late as we were in Operation Magic
Carpet, the railyard men were old hands and helped us find trains heading
in the general directions of our homes. I overnighted with a charming
elderly couple who'd lost both sons and had made it their mission to fatten
up returning soldiers. It was, perhaps, the best food I'd had since Pearl
Harbour.

Rationing had ended a bit more than a year before, but distribution was
still a mess. Since it was Kansas, flour, wheat, corn, eggs, milk and meat
were plentiful; sugar, fruit and most veggies were not. What fell on my
plate that night was a steak roughly the size of a mess hall, several ears
of corn drenched in real butter and fresh, steaming "American" style bread
so different from the crusty loaves I'd been eating. Mr and Mrs Voight just
beamed as I moaned and praised them through the meal. I knew, and honoured,
the fact that they were not actually feeding me, but feeding their two lost
sons through me.

Mr Voight shared a long smoke (him a pipe and me my trusty Winstons) on the
porch, rocking in the hot, dry evening of early summer. Fireflies winked
around us as the sun set, and swifts were replaced with bats flitting
hither and yon after the insects of the night. I was surprised and relieved
that he had no interest in war stories, more interested in my family, my
farm, my plans... my son.

He cried at one point, agonised over what he'd never been able to teach
them before the war took them. I just set my hand on his shoulder and
listened, no different than a buddy who'd lost a brother or gotten word on
the death of a mother, a father, a child continents away from his
protection. I returned the favour as I agonised over what I'd missed, the
things someone else had to teach in my place. I bawled like a babe and he
gave me the comfort I desperately needed.

The next morning, I was on a freight that would pass through Winfield
before turning south. The Railroaders has told me when I could expect to
arrive (it would be collecting sorghum at Mulvane and Udall on the way) and
I'd spent real, American dollars on a telegram to my father-in-law
arranging a ride.

Since Mulvane's silo was dry, the train barely paused and I arrived in
Winfield's Valley Co-Op (the line I was on didn't go to the passenger
station) far earlier than expected early. I walked the few blocks to Main
Street. I had well over an hour before Milt was supposed to pick me up at
Grave's Drug and Fountain.

I went into Liermann's, one of the best bootmakers in southern Kansas, as
my army clogs wouldn't do at all. I got two sturdy pairs, lucky as my feet
were nearly identical to the samples he built; most of his work was
custom. I found a beautiful, fur-felt hat in dusty tan with a tooled
leather band, finer (to my eye) that even the storied Boss of the Plains
that made Stetson famous. Mr Liermann steamed and bent crown (three-finger
style) the brim (rain-n-shine style) to perfection for me. I smiled at what
I considered an exotic and mysterious accent when I was younger. Now his
Czech-rich English seemed more normal than the folks who'd been born and
raised within miles of his store.

Anthony's was next and I blew some of my back pay on jeans and shirts,
figuring that Government Issue was fine for underneath. In fact, the
normally-despised cut of the GI Boxers was uniquely suited to my very large
cock and big-but-tight balls. Men with real low-hangers tended to hate the
GI undies as the leg-hole could catch and mangle their tenders. I was not
hard to fit otherwise. My shoulders were broad, but not massive. My hips
were narrower than most, but my thighs were meaty. Two solid years of
sitting had spread my ass wider than I liked, but that would soon be
remedied.

The salesman was extremely, *extremely* helpful with fitting the pants,
especially after I took off my fatigues and he got a hint of what was
jiggling behind that faded green boxer-fly. He seemed quite taken with the
red-auburn fur that coated my chest, crotch and ass. He took very special
care to ensure that the fit was perfect. In fact, as a consummate
professional, he helped check the coverage and fit in every possible state
of excitation, erection and post-coital comfort, then he dried my
newly-drained cock and balls before helping me reassemble myself in the new
clothes and boots and packing my army kit away. In addition to my tip, he
got a monetary one as well for the truly exceptional service.

Lastly was a stop at Kerr's, a fine ladies' apparel store. Packed away in
my kit, protected by meticulously-folded padding, were a pair of women's
gloves from Milan, leather thin as silk and prettier than anything other
than my wife, traded-for a month or so ago; a scarf of Scottish wool in a
brilliant tartan of my Beth's favourite reds and rusts from a London shop;
and a bottle of perfume from none other than Paris itself that I'd bought
on my return journey. What was left was something my wife had always had a
weakness for, hats. I found a simple, elegant one in deepest crimson with a
small spray of white feathers that would look stunning on my bride's
chestnut hair.

I walked some more to loosen the boots and jean and re-learn how to wear
civvies before settling at the fountain of Grave's Drug. The jerk was a
freckled youth with an irrepressible smile and dimples that nearly made me
purr. I had no doubt that his look of cherubic innocence was a facade as he
rippled and tensed his luscious, perfectly-round ass at me as he pulled my
soda. Thank God I'd just been very effectively drained or I would have been
hard-pressed not to find myself in a compromising position when Milt
arrived.

Which he did about 15 minutes later. He walked through the door and spotted
me immediately. He had a young ranch-hand with him, tall and a bit lanky,
but clean-cut. Milt (Milton Schwartz) was my father-in-law and looked like
every German Burgher I'd dealt with for the past three years.  He could
best be described as a beer barrel with big legs a great black
moustache. He even wore the miniscule round eyeglasses so many merchants in
pre- and post-war Germany favoured. His family, though, had been in the US
since the Civil War when his great-grandfather had come on a draft-boat
(given free passage by the Union in exchange for military service).

He strode forward and vigorously shook my hand before dragging me into a
rib-crushing bear hug and thumping my back with "affectionate" pats that
drove the air from my lungs. He might be old, and might be a merchant, but
he was strong as an ox! He finally pulled back and stepped aside.

The farmhand was frankly gorgeous. Slightly-weathered and lean with a
strong build.  Curly chestnut hair leaking from beneath his hat; broad,
open face with sexy-as-fuck lips with the remains of the that young-adult
pout. And the most penetrating grey eyes that looked for all the world like
my Beth's. I literally staggered and the blood left my upper body. A
grinning Milt reached to keep me upright as I got out a strangled, "JoJo?"
before launching myself into a hug with what I belatedly realised was my
son.

In the post-war years, scenes such as this were commonplace but still drew
a crowd of tearful women and beaming men watching a reunion that neither
party could trust would ever really happen. JoJo was crying and hugging me
back as I unashamedly sobbed into his chestnut curls. We rocked like that
for a far-too-short eternity before Milt finally stepped up.

"Let's get you home, son."

I could only nod, voice lost, perhaps forever, with the emotions that I had
held mostly at bay for five long and terrifying years. Regardless, I
refused to relinquish the hold on my precious baby boy's shoulders, now
just fractionally-below my own.

We stepped into the midday heat and Milt let us to what could only be
called a jalopy. I knew that it had once been an Essex Super-6 pickup, but
the years had not been kind. It might have rolled off a Dover-Hudson
assembly line, but years and the recent depravations of a country at war
meant that it probably had parts from every known car company, and I could
see repairs that certainly include International Harvester and others with
the signature green-and-yellow of John Deere. My immediate thought was,
'What a mutt,' and the name Mutt would stick until it was wrecked beyond
repair in the mid-sixties.

Milt effortlessly slung my duffle into the bed, basically a foot-high
wooden rim around the flatbed. Milt got behind the wheel and JoJo wedged
himself between Milt and me. I looked at him oddly as he skootched himself
well back and up; that HAD to be an horribly uncomfortable way to ride!
That is until Milt threw the machine into reverse, slamming the shifting
knob into the precise location JoJo's nuts would have been if the boy had
been sitting normally. I smiled at what clearly was a learned-by-pain
posture.

JoJo and I had said almost nothing, content to just look at each other. We
were both slightly teary still. Milt finally broke the silence. "Sammy here
has become quite a rancher, Samuel." Milt has always called me Samuel,
never Sam, but who the hell was Sammy?

Milt laughed. "I plumb forgot! Sammy hasn't gone by JoJo since he hit his
growth. I guess Beth didn't think to mention that." I thought back. Beth
had always written of 'our beautiful boy' or 'your wonderful son', not
bothering with names at all. My heart ripped a little at how much I'd
missed in that damned war.

"I'm sorry, J-- Sammy. It's going to take some time for me to get used to
that."

Sammy spoke for the first time and I was shocked at the deep and
penetrating baritone that had replaced the angelic treble of the son I'd
left behind. "Um, what do you want me to call you?"

I did let the tears fall then, "Is it o.... okay if you st-still call me
Daddy for a while? I've missed you so m-m-m-much!" He started to cry as
well and hugged me again, whispering into my heaving chest "daddy" and
"missed you" and so many other things that made my soul sing and my heart
break.

I looked up and saw my ever-stoic father-in-law trying to secretly wipe
away the flood of tears that had struck him as well. He saw me looking and
coughed, "Hate the dust in this town." I regained some composure and
profusely thanked Milt for taking care of my wife and son these five long
years.

Conversation became impossible as left Winfield behind us after passing the
still-beautiful quad of St John's College and filling up at the station
that had been at the wedge-shaped intersection of 9th and Simpson basically
since gasoline had been invented. After the magic of the Nazi Autobahn
system, being on the dusty and sparse blacktop of rural US roads was a
shock. It took us about 90 minutes to make it the roughly 50 miles to
Black's Dry Goods in the town of Howard, Kansas.

Milt's father had started the store in 1910 under his own name, Schwartz's
Dry Goods. Even though the whole of Eastern Kansas is studded with German
families, The Great War made anything German-sounding unprofitable. The
Elder Mr Schwartz (I'd actually never heard him called anything else,
though he must have had an actual name) changed the store to the English
translation of his name, Black's, months after that war began.

We got there to find a huge bunting in red, white and blue, and a banner,
"Welcome Home Our Own Hero, Sergeant Sam Reilley!" My mother-in-law
(universally called Mrs Milt) and a huge number of family, friends and
neighbours were there, and cheered as we drove up, and again when I got out
of the truck. As if rehearsed (it was), the crowd parted to reveal the most
beautiful woman ever to live on the planet we call Earth, Beth (Elizabeth)
Schwartz Reilley.

I didn't run to her. I didn't walk. I simply was hugging her without either
of us having moved, lifting her into a kiss packed full of five years of
love, longing and regret. The cheers and applause were lost on us both, as
they had been at our wedding when the priest had actually needed to pull us
apart about five minutes after, "You may kiss the bride."

I finally set her down again and saw, under the brilliant and exultant
smile, a grimace of pain. I frowned but had no chance to ask as I was
suddenly swarmed by pretty much everyone I had ever known. While that was
happening, tables magically appeared followed by a massive spread of
food. Milt had apparently told the entire town that they were welcome as
long as they gave us an hour with close family and friends, and pretty much
the entire town came by that afternoon and into the evening.

Fried chicken, hams and fried fish from several women's kitchens were there
along with every possible side dish. Jack Larsen, perpetual mayor of the
small town, lorded over a grill packed to overflowing with crispy-skinned
sausages, butter-basted chicken, succulent pork-steaks, sizzling hamburgers
and sirloin strips. It was abundantly clear that I would mortally offend
*some* fine lady if I didn't eat and praise a little of every single dish,
and the idea that my cup of beer might be less than half-full was anathema
to the men, several of whom snuck in dollops of forbidden booze (Kansas
would not allow alcohol for another year).

By dusk, I was stuffed to the point of actual pain and drunk enough that
walking was a distinct challenge. Mrs Milt quietly ushered me, Beth and J--
Sammy to the porch jutting from their above-the-store home and brought me a
steaming mug of REAL coffee. The three of us sat, simply staring and
smiling at each other, as the sun set and the bugs rose. Milt and his wife
joined us. By the fourth cup of coffee I was human again and started
thanking them for what they'd done.

And it wasn't just the war. His profitable business had let my own family
survive the depression with most of our ranch-lands intact. My father had
died of a stroke, likely from the pressure of ranching during the Great
Depression, two years after Beth and I had been married and had our
precious JoJo. Over Milt's vocal objections, we had repaid everything we
could as beef and milk prices stabilised; by the late 30s when prices began
to boom from Lend-Lease exports, the ranch was more than self-sufficient.

You cannot run a ranch alone. It was impossible even if you don't care
about the extreme dangers of dealing with your horse, stupid cows, enraged
bulls and various hazards from rattlesnakes to gopher holes. Dad had
employed a cantankerous curmudgeon name Wilfried Mead and a young buck
named Stu Stillwell in addition to my young self; it was just enough if we
hired extra for branding and driving-to-market.

When Dad died, Milt had helped me, a shy but fiercely-diligent 18-year-old,
hire a ranch foreman. Gunny Marsh was a godsend. A former Marine who'd
signed up for WWI just as it ended, he'd contracted and survived the
Spanish Influenza. At the rank of Gunnery Sergeant, he "left the service"
after "an unfortunate incident with an officer" (something I always assumed
to mean 'beating some sense into a fucking wet-behind the ears lieutenant';
I'd find out the real story much, much later).

The first thing Gunny did was fire Wilfried after only a day of working
alongside him and Stu. It was what Dad (or I) should have done years
before. The second was come to me about changing some of the setups. His
ideas not only made sense, they saved real, hard money over time. Gunny,
Stu and I ran the ranch for the next nine years until I was drafted. The
Army gave me a month to settle the ranch and other affairs.

Gunny introduced me to two brothers, both young and wounded in the early
days of the war. Baxter Lohman had actually gone to Canada and volunteered
two years before we entered the war. He'd heard what had happened to some
of his distant family, Jews in Poland quietly killed after the Germans
invaded. Baxter had his knee badly damaged by a Nazi bomb during the Blitz,
badly enough that, over his violent (and obscenity-laced) objections, he
was discharged and sent home. That was 1940. Barely a year after he got
home, when he was still learning how to walk again, Pearl Harbour happened.

His younger brother Ray was sixth in line at the recruiting station the
next morning, lying about his age (he was not yet even 17). He joined the
Navy and almost-immediately shipped east after the most rudimentary
training to replace men lost already (his wartime weapon of choice was a
mop). Ray was one of the men injured when the Lexington was lost in the
Battle of the Coral Sea. In sad irony, the explosion that burned him and
sent shrapnel into his back and side happened on his 17th Birthday, 08 May,
1942. He could have returned to service if he hadn't been trying so hard to
fuck one of his nurses. In a pity-ploy, he'd played up the 'almost killed
on my birthday' then the young idiot let slip and told her that it was his
17th. He was quietly shipped off as soon as he could walk onto a US-bound
ship.

Baxter's knee was rarely an issue since it was uncommon to find him off his
horse. Ray, now in his 20s, was as creaky as an old man but strong as a
bull. They had made brilliant additions to the team and Gunny had sent me
monthly updates. At my instruction, he ploughed every penny of profit (and
there was plenty) back into the ranch, including updates to the house over
the last six months. I was really looking forward to moving back into the
house with my beloved Beth and JoJ-- Sammy. Damn but that was going to take
some getting used to.

We finally settled into bed in the guest room that had been Beth's home for
the last five years. Odd. I'd waited five years thinking of little other
than survival, fucking Beth and raising my son. Now that I was home, what I
craved more than anything was simply to hold her. She soothed me as I wept
myself to sleep with joy and relief that I was finally back where I
belonged.

I had troubled and troubling dreams. Disjointed. Disturbed and
disturbing. The worst and most vivid two were: The soda jerk with the
fucking amazing ass, wiggling at me, taunting with it; I'm naked, hard,
dripping and he turns; grey, innocent eyes skewer mine and JoJo's
11-year-old voice says, "Daddy?" I stand at a window of a bombed-out
hospital. I'm watching Jannik take on four huge, randy servicemen, one at
his ass and alternating sucking the other three. He looks up at me
suddenly, grey eyes huge, "Are you okay, Daddy?"

The first dream had woken me, shaking and sweating, in the middle of the
night. Beth was out from under the covers and I tucked her in, hands
shaking. The latter dream, though...

I bolted awake, alone in the bed. I nearly screamed when I realised that
Jo--Sammy was shaking my knee. The dream had simply incorporated his
concerned voice, "Daddy? You were really moaning. Is everything okay?" His
grey eyes were wide with concern. I shuddered, horrified to realised that I
was completely railed. I would have attributed it to morning wood, but that
would not have explained the slimy, sensuous sensation of my pre-cum
leaking into my boxers.

I sat up, trying to pretend that I wasn't hard or worried or shaking like a
leaf.

"I'm fine J--Sammy. It was just a dream."

"A dream about the... the war?"

I sigh. I vowed at his birth never to lie to JoJo and I wasn't going to lie
to Sammy now. "No, son. Nothing bad. Nothing about the war. Just the type
of nightmare that shakes you up a little. Everybody has them sometimes,
especially when you're in a new or strange place. You understand,
J--Sammy?"

He nodded, dropped his eyes for a minute, then looked back at me. In a very
small voice, in a rich baritone but otherwise indistinguishable from the
little-boy voice I left behind, "You, you can call me JoJo if there aren't
other people around, Daddy. I, I, I'd really like that."

I dragged him into a fierce hug, tears again threatening, but I managed to
control them. "I have missed you more than you can know, JoJo. I missed you
every day. I, I cried knowing that I couldn't be here for you. I am so, so
sorry, JoJo." I felt more than heard his own choked sob, which shattered
the wall of my reserve and my tears began to soak his chestnut hair. I
promised, swore, vowed before God that I would make up for the lost five
years. I would find a way to make it up to this precious, perfect,
wonderful man-child.

<eof>

So, after letting these characters settle and gel for a while, there is
definitely going to be more father-son action than I'd originally
expected. That is in addition to Sammy's precocious interest in... Well, I
guess you'll have to wait to find that out. Let me know your
thoughts. orson.cadell@gmail.com

*****

Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Karl & Greg: 18 chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/
Canvas Hell: 15 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 7 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 7 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Mud Lark Holler: 6 chapters .../rural/mud-lark-holler/
Babe in the Woods: 2 chapters .../rural/babe-in-the-woods/
Off the Magic Carpet: 2 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/

PS: YAY! I even have my own "Prolific Author" listing! I feel so proud!