Date: Thu, 16 Sep 2004 23:00:16 EDT
From: Tommyhawk1@aol.com
Subject: Autumn Memories story

			      AUTUMN MEMORIES
			   By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
		      WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM

The old man moved slowly on the sidewalk in the park, the smooth, steady
shuffle that ate up distance, if not quickly, at least ate it up. His
target was a bench there, one which would catch the afternoon rays of the
sun. It was quiet, it was little used, it was, as much as any public
fixture could be, his very own.

The leaves were just beginning to fall. They had turned, scarely a single
bit of green was left in the canopies, but they were still full. Trees now
full of red, orange, yellow leaves, flashes of color that flew and flashed
like so much confetti strewn about at a wedding or a festival, glittering
pieces of light that beckoned you to travel into the next world. Come, they
seemed to say, this is not a parting but a journey to another realm, this
is not a time of grief, this is a time of joy. Join us, laugh with us, love
us as we love you!

The old man settled into the bench with little difficulty, he had to remain
perched on the edge of it, resting part of his weight upon his cane, for
his back was curved far over and his neck depended not from the top of his
body any longer, but the side. This left his neck a wrinkled length of
turkey neck, his eyes peered ahead of him with an intensity. He was
expecting it, knowing it would come, as it always had.


Two men rushed in from the bushes to either side, their faces grimed with
battle, their uniforms filthy and unkempt, for these were men who had been
fighting for some weeks without adequate rest, without facilities to wash
themselves or their clothing, where a bath was to find a pool of some kind
and dunk in, where washing was to slosh them around and wring them dry as
you could, and even then, you often had to put on damp clothes. So these
men smelled, no doubt about it, a rank goatish smell that would curl up
inside your nostrils for hours afterward.

But neither of these young men noticed it, they'd been at each other's
sides too long, the smell was a part of them.

The old man listened to them, he knew every word, hearing it as though it
were yesterday.

"Flushed them out, didn't we?" the blond-haired one said. He was a bit
older, a bit stronger, a bit more in authority.

"Got all the Jerries out of that French town, all right." the other man
said. And the old man smiled as he heard that. Yes, they had cleared the
town of the Germans that day in the autumn of 1944. The town had turned out
after the battle, which had been cursory and more a fighting withdrawal
than a true clash. The townspeople hadn't had much, but what they had, they
had shared. The GI's in their turn had been liberal with their ration
packs, what American wouldn't trade dehydrated beef and dessicated stew for
fresh baked bread and fine French wine?

"Looks like we'll be in Berlin about Christmas if this keeps up." the blond
man observed.

The other man sniffed audibly. "Hell, Gilbert, you know they aren't going
to keep caving. They're just drawing back their lines so they can contain
us." He lit and drew a drag from a cigarette. "The Rhine makes a hell of a
good barrier if nothing else. And I doubt the Maginot Line is any easier
from this side than the other."

"The other man drew another meditative pull from his cigarette, blew it out
slowly. "I hope to hell they don't send us that way."

"We'll go whichever way they send us."

"Still, I think this is all too damned easy. The Jerries are up to
something, I say."

"You worry too much, Atwood." the blond man said.

"Hey, I plan to go home after this is all over with!" Atwood
responded. "What about you, Gilbert? What are your plans?"

"I don't make plans." Gilbert said. "Man's a fool to make plans with a war
going. Time enough for that when you're done."

"You're a pessimist, Gilbert."

"You're a dreamer, Atwood." Gilbert retorted. "You plan to dream your whole
life away?"

"Just might." Atwood said. "Beats what you got going."

"How do you know what I got going?"

"I know you, well as any man knows another. Hell, we've been in enough
foxholes together. You got a secret I don't know about, I'm going to be
damned surprise."

"You'd be real surprised what you don't know."

"Oh, no I wouldn't be surprised. Not one bit. Just try me and you'll see."

"Okay, then, how about this?" Gilbert's hand came up and landed on Atwood's
inner thigh.

The old man leaned forward, regarding the scene eagerly. Every edge was
imprinted on his mind, clear as it could be. The years hadn't faded it the
way it had so many other things.

Atwood regarded this intrusion less than three inches from his manhood with
calm equanimity. "What do you say about this?"

"Not a bit surprised." Atwood said.

Gilbert's hand traveled up and cupped Atwood's basket. "You surprised yet?"

"Not me."

"You even understand what I'm about to do to you, Atwood?"

The old man leaned forward and lipped Atwood's words along with him, in
perfect synchronization.

"Understand? Hell, why you think I've been sticking next to you all this
time? Come and get me!"

Gilbert rolled up and onto Atwood and the old man watched the young men
holding each other. Such things happened in wartime, far more than anyone
ever mentioned. There had been a trust established among your men, all of
them. You knew them, trusted them, loved them....and if that love went
further now and then, well, whose business was that? In wartime, such a
thing was a mere picadillo, and officers considered it more a thing to be
brushed under the carpet with a cautionary warning than with any actual
punitive charges.

So these two men, two men who had fought beside each other, lived alongside
each other, guarded each other, protected each other, trusted each other
utterly, expressed that trust in this way, and here, now, in this
situation, and the old man watched it all, knowing each move, anticipating
it, savoring it as it came, not rushing any part of it, God, it was so
sweet, so sweet!

And he watched as Gilbert took command as he always did, Atwood groaning
under him as Gilbert worked his lips upon the heavy shadow of beard,
watched as Gilbert's hands undid Atwood's belt buckle and removed it, saw
the brawny arm dangle it like a cream-colored snake to one side and then
drop it to coil among the leaves, then to pull the green pants down the
pale flesh, exposing legs before being balked at the boots, he solved this
by pulling off one boot whose shoelaces were in horrible disrepair (laces
suffered much in wartime and were impossible to replace), and then pulled
the pants over that leg and left them at that.

"You ready now for me?" Gilbert growled as he undid his own pants.

"Born ready." Atwood affirmed. "Make me grunt like those whores back in
Paris did."

"They were grunting because I was too fucking big for them." Gilbert
claimed impudently. "They were used to tiny little French dicks, not a big
American dong like mine!"

"Yeah, it takes an American hole to handle an American pud." Atwood agreed
with the blithe naivete of the soldier, partisan in all things as befit
their esprit de corps.

The old man watched greedily as Gilbert spat in his palm, greased up his
pud. It was all as he remembered it, exactly so, right up to where Gilbert,
his prick gleaming in the sunlight that shot through a hole in the leaf
canopy, aimed it at Atwood's butt. "You ready for this?" He asked again.

"Yeah, come on, shove it up me!" Atwood growled. "Drive it in me, you horny
fucker, drive it in good, yeah, shit, yeah!"

Atwood wasn't silent as Gilbert rammed it into his buddy's butt, he yodeled
out in a manner that should have alerted everyone for a mile around...only
there wasn't anybody else around. Just the old man...and he didn't count,
watching all of this. The two men could make all the noise they wanted.

And Atwood did. "Aw-w-w-w-w-w-w-w, yeahhhhhh!" he groaned
out. "Uhh-uh-uhh-uhhh-uhhh!" And that was Gilbert sending that prong all
the way to the hilt.

The old man shivered, the sensations were so intense, even after all this
time, even here and now, watching it all again, he could feel the power of
that moment, as Gilbert drove that dong deep between Atwood's quivering
buttocks and inside his tumbling bowels, and Atwood keened anew as Gilbert
withdrew that shimmering scimitar of maleness, then plunged it in again.

Atwood clutched and clawed at Gilbert, his roughed, dirty, broken-nailed
fingers clutching desperately at the green covered back.

"Aw, shit, yeah!" Gilbert snarled down at his pinioned lover. "Damn you,
Atwood, you got such a sweet, hot ass! Fuck, yeah, I should'a been fucking
your ass long ago."

"Yeah, come on, you horny bastard, fuck my ass but good!" Atwood growled
back at him.

Two horny soldiers, raw in their lust and driven in their sexuality, and
the old man their only witness. He saw the lithe buttocks of Gilbert rising
and falling as they drove his pud into Atwood's ass, he saw Atwood's legs
flailing in the air, then clamp down onto Gilbert's thighs and he was
thrusting back at Gilbert, the two caught up in a symphony of rut that,
even had they had witnesses, they wouldn't have cared at that point.

And the old man watched them, his eyes beginning to tear up as he saw them
reaching their climax, the paired bodies thrusting with more intensity, so
that they were no longer moving in smooth motions, but hard jerking
thrusts, puncuated at contact each time, unk, unk, unk, unk!

Atwood came first, and he howled and his jizz splattered both himself and
Gilbert, staining their already-stained undershirts with hot, white
jism. And he clawed at Gilbert as he came, and Gilbert arched his back,
threw his head back even further, so that he was bent like a bow over
Atwood, and his low, gutteral groan was the loosing of the arrow from that
bow, for he gave out that long, single sound, then he collapsed inwards and
down, falling on his lover, and they were a jumbled mass of groaning,
interlocked men, sweating and swearing under their breaths as they
recovered from their ordeal of ejaculation.

The old man watched them gently, and had to reach up to wipe a tear from
his eye as he watched the two soldiers get dressed. Yes, that was how it
had been. He had remembered it all, and remembered it well.


"Grandpa, Grandpa!" came the call. The old man swiveled and saw the two
sparkling little girls run to him, their nanny behind them. He looked at
the tree one more time, but no trace of the two soldiers remained...of
course.

He held open his arms and his granddaughters dove into them and they hugged
him. "Grandpa, why were you crying?"

"Is something wrong, Mr. Atwood?" the nanny asked him. For her, it was the
search for encroaching senility.

"No, I'm fine." he told her, told his daughters.

"Were you lonely waiting for us, Grandpa?" his older granddaughter said as
they scampered around him as he shuffled back.

"No, baby." he said as he looked back at the tree, the falling leaves
sparkling in the sun. "I wasn't lonely. I never get lonely these days. I
have my memories to keep me company."

				  THE END
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		  E-mail the Author at Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
		      WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM