When the War is Over

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A/N — Hello! So after uploading a few of my older stories, that I’d uploaded under a previous name but then deleted due to a crisis of sorts, this is an entirely new one I’ve written only recently. Being a history buff, I thought setting a story during and after a major event might prove interesting to some. Even went so far as to make sure this is somewhat historically accurate, though as this is fantasy, while I also try and keep things realistic, it’s not overly important to the story as a whole.

Hope you enjoy it. I plan on one or two more erotic stories based in historical settings. Hell, if you can think of an idea, leave it in the comments or send me feedback and I’ll see what I can do. I am quite busy otherwise, but I’ll always try and reply to an idea. (Comments are difficult to reply too, feedback comes by email and is easier to reply to.)

*****

“Well, if that isn’t a sight for sore eyes, sir.”

I could only grunt my agreement as we relaxed against the railing, the steam ship approaching the gap leading towards the harbour. It had been a long trip from Southampton. From leaving the south of Britain, we’d journeyed down the Channel then south along the edge of Atlantic, crossed the Mediterranean for the Suez Canal, through the Gulf of Aden out into the Arabian Sea, south-east across the Indian Ocean into the Timor Sea, journeying the gap between homeland and the Dutch East Indies, before arriving in the Coral Sea and finally heading south, the shore always within what felt like touching distance. Hell of a journey, lasting over a month, and the only real problem for all the men was boredom. Most of us had been in Europe fighting since the early days of the war. I’d joined up as soon as Australia had declared war on Nazi Germany, September 3rd, 1939.

My grandfather had fought in the Great War, and warned me of what I might face when I decided to join up. The family knew he was still haunted by all that he’d seen, the fact he was lucky to escape with barely a scratch despite spending two years on the Western Front. Being his only grandson, I could understand his caution. My father, while not urging, insisted it was the right thing to do. Britain had rallied its colonies to its flag, and all Australians would answer her call. We lived near a small town a couple of hundred miles north-west of Sydney, our farm producing wool and meat for King and country. Thankfully, despite living on a rural farmstead, I had an education, but it was my mechanical know-how which I knew would help when it came to what I wanted to do.

I joined up hoping to be a pilot. By the grace of God, I was accepted into the Royal Australian Air Force. Training was through the Empire Air Training Scheme, I ended up being one of thousands of Australians who was sent to North Africa as part of the Commonwealth forces that faced Rommel’s AfrikaKorps.

I spent five years in North Africa then Europe, seeing action for the first time in late 1940, most Australian units amalgamated into those of the Royal Air Force. I hesitate to say we enjoyed nearly two years in North Africa, flying numerous sorties every week, pitting my wits against the best Nazi Germany had to offer. The Italian Air Force was effective at times, but it was always the Krauts we worried about.

After victory was practically confirmed in North Africa, myself and thousands of compatriots were transferred to Britain and placed under the authority of Bomber Command. All I remember is that we were afforded good food for the first time in years, and there were plenty of pretty ladies about. Being pilots, wearing wings on our uniforms, we were certainly popular, and it was during my break before seeing action over Europe for the first time that I had sex with only my second partner. More partners followed during my time overseas as men in uniform were rather popular in Britain. Particularly men in uniform with accents from the other side of the world.

I saw action in the sky before and during D-Day, but my luck was about to run out. Flying my Spitfire back to my base in Hampshire, one of the things most pilots fear is the landing gear failing. Coming in to land, mine failed. That meant a belly landing, but before that, I had to fly around to ensure the fuel tanks were empty. Crashing upon landing with fuel in the tanks usually meant disaster. The one fear we all lived was fire. Being burned was… horrific.

I managed to land my plane, but the propeller dug into the ground, tipping the plane. I survived, and thankfully the fire was small. But my left leg was smashed to bits, along with numerous other wounds. I ended up spending six months convalescing. I was never in danger of losing my leg, but my worry was not being able to fly again.

Thankfully, despite needing a cane to walk and shooting pains from time to time, I managed to prove I could still fly, and spent the last months of the war escorting bombers into German air space. By now, the Luftwaffe could barely muster a defence, though we did witness their new jet-powered fighters. They were so fast, it was unreal. But there were sivas escort bayan very few of them, and we knew the Germans now lacked critical supplies, including fuel.

My last sortie over Europe was two days before Victory in Europe Day. Didn’t see an enemy fighter in the sky. No bombers either. It was simply a patrol as the Germans had stopped firing into the sky.

With thousands of Australians now in Europe with nothing to do, there were rumours that we’d all be sent east to fight the Japs. Thankfully, while a few thousand did end up flying over Asia, my length of service and injury had me receiving my transfer papers home.

Having spent over five years away from home, the only way I’d kept in touch was by post, and that took forever to arrive. Think I’d received ten letters in total from home. I wrote back more often, but I’m sure a lot of what I said was censored, just in case it ended up in enemy hands. Most of the news I received was bad. The death of friends. The deaths of my grandparents. The death of my father, leaving my mother a widow, and three sisters without any male presence on the farm.

No matter what, I was looking forward to going home and seeing my family. I’d left the farm as a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old. I was now returning as a war veteran of twenty-four, with a bad leg, plenty of medals on my uniform and a lot of memories, some of them good, a lot of them the sort that meant I didn’t want to close my eyes and dream.

A soft elbow into my side broke me out of my reverie. “There she is, sir. The bridge! The fucking bridge!”

Sydney Harbour Bridge came into view, and I could see the docks in the distance, and the vast crowds waiting to meet us. Many of the men were in my position, having been in Europe for up to five years. I knew many Australians had chosen to remain in Europe, finding themselves a British, French, Italian, even German wife.

“Your family waiting for you, Smithy?” I wondered.

“Aye, sir. Was sent a cable during the voyage. You?”

“No, they know I’m coming home, but with the farm and everything, I’m going to surprise them by just knocking on the front door.”

“You’re from out west, sir. Quite the journey home, right?”

“North-west, near Tamworth.”

“Long journey home, sir.”

“Aye, but it’ll be worth it.”

It took a couple of hours for the ship to dock, and then even longer for the men to start disembarking. I saw numerous tearful reunions before returning to my shared quarters to grab my few possessions. I had two uniforms, two pairs of casual clothes, a bit of cash, my shaving kit, and a few other bits and pieces to see me home.

Making my way through the crowds, I received salutes and smiles, many stopping just to shake my hand. It felt good to be home, hearing accents in abundance that I hadn’t heard in years, far too used to hearing Pommie and Yankie accents. Someone hailed me a cab, seeing me strolling along with my limp, relying on my cane, asking to be taken to Central Station.

It was heaving with people, standing in line for at least an hour until I could finally ask about a ticket home. Thankfully, there was a train heading north the next day, so after buying one, I asked about a hotel for the night. Wearing my uniform certainly helped open doors for me, being escorted by a rail employee to a nearby hotel. It was simple but just what I needed.

The steam train was waiting early the next morning, boarding my carriage for the long journey home. I’d only been to Sydney once before, after I’d signed up and was sent to the war in North Africa. Other than that, the largest town I’d been to was Newcastle, a couple of hours north of the state capital. I saw London from the air and its sheer size beggared belief. I’d flown over other cities in Europe, and was amazed at how large these could be. Sydney didn’t feel anywhere as large from my window seat. Then again, it was only 1945. Maybe it would grow larger in the next few decades?

Sydney to Tamworth is around 260 miles. The steam train I was riding on probably averaged 40 miles an hour due to all the stops it made, seeing many fellows servicemen leave with their families, receiving plenty of salutes as years in the service had seen me rise in the ranks. I’d had offers to remain in Europe as part of the post-war process, but I wanted to go home to the farm and my family.

It was late afternoon by the time the train finally arrived at Tamworth station, surprised I was one of a few to disembark. Heading towards the main street, I received plenty of stares as I had a feeling few men in uniform were around. The farm was still a good half an hour away by car, and there were no such things as taxi’s in a small place like Tamworth. I’d have to try and thumb a lift if possible.

What I needed to do first was wet my whistle so headed for the best hotel and pub in town. Standing at the bar, I ordered a cold beer. Taking my first sip, it didn’t take long to be inundated with questions or have my hand shaken. When asking about getting back to the farm, one of the escort sivas older patrons asked, “What’s your name, son?”

“Robert Smith, sir.”

His face lit up. “You’re Maggie’s son!” He held out his hand. “Not surprised you don’t remember me. Harold. Harold Peterson.”

I knew who it was, feeling the smile form. “Mister Peterson. Apologies, it’s just… been a while.”

“Your mother and sisters don’t know you’re here?”

“They know I’m coming home, but I was looking to surprise them.”

He jerked his head to the door. “My vehicle is outside. I’ll give you a lift home. They’ll be delighted to see you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Joining him in his cab, we were soon on the old road leading to our farm. It was nowhere near the largest in the area, but we had space for a few thousand sheep and cattle. I did wonder how mother had managed since my father died, and without her parents or his, I wondered how much of a struggle it had been.

As we drove along, I made small talk with Harold. He asked a few questions but seemed to know what not to ask. I remembered he was a veteran of the Great War himself. Small towns across Australia were full of remembrance plaques, memorials to the dead. Some small towns had seen their male populations almost wiped out. I had no idea what this war had done to us this time. All I know is that I’d seen many friends die over the years. Too many…

Harold dropped me at the end of the drive, the house still a good walk away, but I didn’t want them to hear the vehicle, as it was a noisy old thing. Still plenty of light in the sky. Shaking his hand, he just said, “Thank you,” before he put his car into drive and headed off to his homestead another twenty minutes or so away.

The walk to the homestead took another twenty minutes or so. Would have been far quicker without my bad leg. Stepping up onto the porch, I simply closed my eyes a moment, took a deep breath. There was a little noise from inside, but overriding that was the sound of the countryside. Or the lack of it. The word I used was serenity. After five years of having my ears pounded, the silence was actually a little disturbing. I knew it was going to take time to readjust.

Knocking on the door, I put my cap on and made sure my suit was unwrinkled, looking like the officer I was. Mum answered the door and she nearly fainted. “Oh my god!” she cried before collapsing into my arms, immediately sobbing away.

Feeling her head against my chest, I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the top of her head. My mother was a hard woman. Life on the farm would do that to anyone, but I guess not seeing me since 1939 would provoke that sort of reaction. Then my sisters appeared and I was soon enveloped by all four of them.

“When did you get back?”

“How long have you been back?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

They were just some of the questions I was asked, unable to stop chuckling as I found my cheeks kissed by all four of them before Mum took my hand and led me inside. It was a little deflating that the old man wasn’t around to see me return home, but as I looked around, everything looked about the same as before I’d left.

Beckoned to sit down at the table, Mum disappeared and returned with a bottle of hooch, chuckling away as my sisters gathered close by, all of them wiping their cheeks but their smiles were infectious. All of them were younger than me, most of them dead-ringers for our mother. My mother, Margaret, though she preferred Maggie, was only 43 years old. Though life had been hard, she was still slim and rather attractive, her hair still brunette without any real grey, blue eyes that had always sparkled. One of my sisters was a year old than me, Elizabeth, though she preferred Lizbeth. Brunette, blue eyes, intelligent, but being a woman, her options were limited in a place like this. My second sister was twenty-one, Mary. had almost raven black hair with big brown eyes, the sort of face that reminded me of the girls I saw on the side of bombers back in Blighty. My youngest sister of nineteen, Rose, was perhaps the best lookalike in regards to our mother.

Knocking back a drink, I immediately sighed and sagged back into the chair, removing my cap. I had a couple of scars on my face, reminders of my accident, but the bad leg and other scars on my body were the real reminders. “How did you get here?” Mum asked.

“Mister Peterson. He was in the Central Hotel when I walked in for a beer.”

“I’m guessing you wanted to surprise us?”

“Yeah. I’ve been gone a long time. I’ve received all your letters, those that made it anyway.” I looked around the table. “You were still at school when I left, Rose. You were verging on adulthood, Mary. And Lizbeth…”

“After father… It didn’t feel right to leave.”

I nodded. “Aye. One of the issues with being so far away. Never going to get leave to come all the way back here for it.”

Mum took my hand. “He was ever so proud of you, Robert. Ever so proud.” She gestured with her head. “Your photo still takes pride of place next sivas escort to your grandfather.”

“Are you hungry, Robbie?” Lizbeth wondered.

“Honestly, I’m starving. I had lunch prepared by the hotel I stayed in, but it wasn’t all that much.”

“I think tonight will be one for celebration,” Mum exclaimed.

I didn’t want to sit inside, suggesting we go sit out on the back veranda. I wanted to see the view for the first time in over half a decade. It was just like I remembered, trees in the distance, green fields otherwise, sheep and cattle grazing. I wondered if men were still working on the farm for mother or if they’d been sent off to fight the Japs. The war had ended during our voyage back home, but it took time for units to be demobilised. I knew many men in Europe might not make it back to Australia until 1946.

Rose cuddled into my left, Mary to my right. No surprise my youngest sisters had missed me. I knew Lizbeth would have done too, but being their older brother, I’d always looked after them. And while they’d remember me, I was certainly a different man to the one who’d left the farm with an idealised view of the world and the war I’d fight in. Reality didn’t match expectations. I guess, in war, it never would.

Sighing again, I hugged both of them tightly. “It’s good to be home,” I said softly, “Damned good to be home.”

“We missed you,” Rose replied, barely above a whisper.

“We kept all your letters,” Mary added, “We’ve probably read each of them hundreds of times, just imagining what you were up to. Mother has always said we’re not to ask too many questions when you got home though. Just like with Pop and his war.”

I sighed again. “You won’t want to hear about a lot of it. In fact, most of it.” I kissed both on the forehead. “Let’s talk about nicer things for now.”

They told me about life for the past six years. Thankfully, it hadn’t been one of deprivation as, though rationing was in effect, the farm produced enough that only certain products were hard to come by. But the vegetable patch and certain trees had provided enough to keep everyone relatively healthy. Being in the service, my diet had certainly been better than civilians, but as long as I had cigarettes, coffee, and liquor, I was generally happy.

Mum and Lizbeth prepared a meal in very quick time, heading inside to be greeted by electric light. Electricity had come to the town before the turn of the century, and was quickly spread out to the farms. Our farm had been in the family for generations, and already had electricity by the time I was born. Sitting at the head of the table, Mum said grace before we tucked in, simply thanking God that I’d returned home, safe and sound.

Though it had been a long day, I wasn’t tired, heading outside to enjoy a drink and a cigarette, taking a seat on the swing chair. Lizbeth joined me, sitting close to me. When her hand rested on my thigh, I took the cigarette from my lips and glanced at her.

“My feelings haven’t changed, Robbie,” she whispered.

I sighed, because even after nearly six years away from home, mine hadn’t either.

*****

Lizbeth and I had always been close growing up, considering we were barely a year apart in age. We attended the small school in Tamworth, nearly all the students in one classroom. We spent all day at school together, would sit side by side on the bus to and from school, and spent most of our time together at home.

It was mid-1939 when things changed between us. I would always insist for the better, and Lizbeth was adamant it was what always what she wanted to. We’d both long finished school by this time, both of us working on the farm. Lizbeth should have been married off by then, but she had showed no interest in any of the men who tried to court her. Father was oblivious to it, but I’d always believed our mother knew why.

“Bloody Germans are going to start another war,” my father muttered while reading the paper. He glanced across the table at me. “That means you might be conscripted, son.”

“I’ll join up before that’s necessary.”

My father nodded his approval before turning his attention back to the newspaper. Glancing at Lizbeth, she looked worried and a little upset. Carefully sliding my hand towards hers, I took it in my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, returning a half-smile at least.

The nights were dark and quiet on the farm. I’d sometimes lie out on the grass and gaze up at the stars. Knew a little about astronomy. I could recognise one or two constellations. Lizbeth would sometimes join me, the only time we felt safe cuddling in the darkness. It was during one of those times we enjoyed our first kiss. Deep down, we knew what we might end up doing was wrong, against the law, against God. But the attraction was overwhelming, and I knew I loved her far more than I should have done.

That night, after I’d admitted to wanting to join up should it happen, we headed out to look at the stars, taking Lizbeth by the hand some distance from the homestead. Lying back in the darkness, it took barely a minute before we shared our first kiss, sliding my tongue into her mouth quickly, moulding her body into mine. She whimpered within a few seconds, as though we were both eager to go further, we hadn’t had the courage to do so yet. But I had a feeling things might be changing rather quickly regarding that.

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