by Leda Swann
P.S.—I blush to the very roots of my hair to write this, but I suspect it would be rather nice to see your soldier’s body, as long as it was not on the operating table. B.
The postscript brought a smile to his heart. She was bold, his Beatrice. Bold, and just a little bit saucy. She was no shrinking violet, but a woman with a frank appreciation of the good things in life and the wisdom to let a man know what she wanted. As a nurse she would be used to seeing male bodies, old or sick though her patients might be. There was no false modesty about her, no pretences.
He liked a woman who enjoyed lovemaking as openly as he did. Beatrice, he could tell by her tone, would be such a woman.
He lingered over the letter as long as he dared before he strode on to the parade ground, his hair slicked back, his moustaches waxed, his uniform freshly laundered and free of wrinkles, and his boots gleaming with fresh polish. The precious letter was tucked for safekeeping into his jacket pocket.
His men were sprawled on the scanty grass, their uniforms in the dust. He frowned at their slackness and called an order at them to come to attention, his voice ringing through the veld.
One by one, they lazily got to their feet and slouched to attention. One of them didn’t even bother to get up from his seat on the ground, but gave a halfhearted attempt at a salute from where he sat.
Standing back, he surveyed them with a critical eye. Months of boredom and inactivity had softened them and made them unfit for anything.
Their uniforms were messy, and their boots dull and coated in dust. Even their rifles, on which their life would one day depend, bore the telltale signs of neglect. All in all, they looked like a bunch of draggle-tailed misfits rather than a crack regiment of British troops.
As their commanding officer, their shabbiness and lack of discipline was his fault. He had let them get into this state of moribund boredom, verging on despair. Indeed, he’d fallen into it himself for some time, before Beatrice’s letters had awakened him to a new sense of purpose, a new sense of belonging.
Starting from today, it was all going to change. Whatever the merits of the conflict in the Transvaal—and of late he had begun to wonder just how justified England’s position was—he was going to live to return to England.
Beatrice kicked off her shoes and stockings and lowered her feet into a basin of steaming water. Though it was midsummer, the weather was cool enough to make a warm footbath a lovely treat. Lenora was working nights again, leaving her with a few evenings to herself.
She reached into her pocket and drew out the letter that had arrived in the late post. Their lodgings had turned into a hive of activity for the Royal Mail: letters were received there almost every day for one or other of them. An envelope with a foreign postmark was no longer a curiosity to be wondered over by the whole house, but could be enjoyed by the recipient in secret.
Bronkhorstspruit, Transvaal, June 1880
Dearest Beatrice,
How wonderful to receive your letter, just to think of summer back home warms my spirits. We’ve moved into winter here, and the nights are bitingly cold under our thin blankets. Even with all my clothes on, I lie on my stretcher and shiver all night with only your letters to keep me warm.
Especially your postscript, so forward you were. But not too forward, be assured I do not think less of you. I confess I did blush a bit when I first read it, although after some thought I imagine seeing your womanly form would definitely be rather nice. I like such directness in circumstances such as mine, and I hope that you do as well.
But I shan’t complain of the cold too much, for despite the conditions under which we live there is still plenty of wonder in the world to raise a man’s spirits. One of the most striking sights to behold in this dusty country is the night sky. When there is no moon the sky is the blackest of black from horizon to horizon, but there are so many stars blazing with a steady light. In some places they are so closely packed that they are like talc carelessly spilt over a mahogany sideboard. What it would be to have you at my side. We could stay close, warming each other while we talk of inconsequential things and let the world carry on without us.
You write in your letter the male body is one of God’s most beautiful creations. Naturally I would differ, and venture to say the female form, with its soft curves and enticing scents, is surely the epitome of creation.
And with that thought in my head I shall try to sleep. I sincerely hope you have the time and inclination to reply, and if you do, please be bold! Cast aside social graces and write the things you want to write. I promise to do the same if you are agreeable.
All my heart,
Percy
Folding up the letter again, she tossed it onto her desk. He certainly had a silver tongue, did this soldier of hers. His letters gave her a window into another life, into his thoughts.
She wiggled her toes in the warm water and hummed a popular romantic ballad under her breath. There was hardly a romantic bone in her body, but something about the captain’s missives made her think quite longingly of love and romance.
The heat of the afternoon sun was at its peak when Captain Carterton and his men returned to the parade ground after their midday meal. The white cork hat kept the worst of the sun off the captain’s face, but he could still feel the harsh rays burning his fair skin. Even though a year in South Africa had tanned his face a few shades of brown darker than normal, the fierce sun still had the power to burn his skin to a crisp.
He had his men set up targets at the far end of the parade ground and then lined them up to fire.
One by one, the men stepped up to the plate, aimed in the general direction of the target, and pulled the trigger. Time and time again, the shot went wide and the target remained unscathed.
“This is target practice,” he admonished them, as yet another man stepped up, took desultory aim, and fired. “The point of the exercise is to aim at a target. To aim at and to hit the goddamned target. Not to fire in the air and hope to wing a passing undertaker bird.”
It was hopeless. The men were too used to firing in a volley and relying on the density of the enemy numbers rather than on their skill with the rifle to make a hit. Half of them didn’t even know how to sight their rifles.
He picked out the best marksman and had him demonstrate to the other men how to aim and fire with some degree of accuracy.
The demonstration made little difference to the number of holes punched in the target.
“We don’t have unlimited supplies of ammunition. Make every bullet count,” he advised the men.
Neither did his advice help much.
The sun was beating down on the back of his neck until he felt as if he were broiling on a grill. All he wanted was a bit of shade in the cool of the tent, and a long, cold drink. Preferably one with a good tot of gin in it. And a generous dash of bitters.
In desperation he tried a different approach. “None of you will be dismissed for the day until each and every one of you has managed to hit the target at least once.”
This threat had the desired effect. Now even the worst shots among the men took several seconds to properly sight their rifles and take careful aim at the target. Slowly but surely, the line of men who had hit the target at least once grew longer, and the line of those who had yet to make the hit grew shorter.
His uniform was hot and prickly on his skin, and soaked with sweat. He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, suddenly desperate to escape the discomfort. Why on earth could they not be issued summer-weight uniforms to wear in the heat? Cotton would be so much more comfortable than wool.
The men in the regiment were calling out advice and encouragement to the ever-dwindling line of poor marksmen. Some of them fired off twenty or thirty shots, still without marking the target.
He groaned at this evidence of his men’s unpreparedness for war. Again, he only had himself to blame. He should have driven them harder, despite the heat and the boredom of their posting. The rumors that war was imminent were getting stronger by the day.
They had to be ready for when the fighting started.
His sweat was chilling on his body by the time the last man hit the target. The men all let out a cheer, and he joined in heartily.
With his objective achieved, and just in the nick of time, he had the corporals quickly assemble the men into a column in preparation to marching them off the shooting range and over to the parade ground. It was nearly sunset and the various units of the company from the kitchen hands to the infantrymen were forming up in straight lines on the parade ground, their red tunics forming blocks of geometric color over the dusty ground.
Raising and lowering the Union Jack was an important ceremony—it was the only time when the company assembled all together. Percy’s chest swelled with pride each time he saw the massed ranks of the company, the power they represented stretched from the dirt on which they stood all the way back to England.
The company came to attention, the soldiers presented arms while the officers saluted and the Union Jack slowly made its way down the flagpole as the lone bugler played the mournful “Last Post,” signaling the end of yet another day. Satisfied all was well, the company commander dismissed the parade. The assembled men turned a smart ninety degrees to the right and marched the obligatory three paces before dissolving into an untidy mob.
Percy called his men closer. “Clean your rifles well. There will be an inspection of your kit tomorrow morning, and then more target practice until you can all hit the target from double the distance. With every shot.”
With the rumors of a conflict growing, shaking the men out of the round of desultory inspections, halfhearted parades, and mind-numbing patrols was essential.
Having had little to do in recent times, they’d all gotten lazy. Each day their standards had slipped just a tiny bit, an unnoticeable amount. It was only when he suddenly woke up a few months down the track and saw how slipshod the whole outfit had become that he even realized what had been happening.
He grimaced as he strode into the officers’ mess tent. He’d gotten as lazy as the rest of them.
But he would be lazy no longer.
Beatrice was waiting for him in England. He had something worth fighting for, worth living for. Someone to come home to.
For her sake, and for the sake of his men, he would work them all until they dropped.
The officers’ batman met him at the door, a tray in his hand. “A shipment arrived today, sir. I believe there was a letter for you in the pile.”
His heart in his throat, he rifled through the letters on the silver tray, feeling a triumphant smile cross his face when he spied her handwriting.
He had a letter from Beatrice. She had replied to him, and by the weight of the paper it was no brief scrawled note, but a wonderfully long missive full of heart and soul.
Suddenly the weariness of the day left him and he no longer felt the discomfort of his damp clothes or the sunburn on his neck and cheeks. He felt ten foot tall and ready to conquer the known world.
He grabbed the letter and carefully slit open the seal with the letter knife. Then, ignoring his fellow officers’ calls to join him at the table, he hunkered down in the corner of the officers’ mess and began to read.
Four
Westminster, London, August 1880
Dearest Percy,
Oh, what I would give to lie under the stars with you. I can see us now, our bodies close, sharing warmth while we gaze into the blazing heavens. How primeval that would be, to do as our distant ancestors did and find stories of bravery and love among the constellations.
High overhead at the moment is the star Vega, one of the brightest in the sky and part of Lyra, the lyre, an instrument played so beautifully by Orpheus that savage beasts were soothed into placidness (I am fortunate that father insisted on a wide education for me!).
Our hands are entwined as we talk of the lives of those old Gods, of their wicked ways and their meddling in human affairs. We laugh as our imaginations run wild, each of us making up stories as wild and saucy as those of Zeus and his many consorts and offspring.
It seems quite natural and comfortable when I move closer to you, my head resting on your chest with your arm around me. The air is becoming chill with a light dew forming yet we refuse to move. I can hear the beating of your heart, I can feel your breathing as my hand caresses your chest.
It frustrates me so that our clothes are keeping us apart, it would be so wonderful to have your skin next to mine. Then we would truly be like our cave-living ancestors, with nothing around us but nature, a warm fur to keep away the chill, and no one to admonish us for being improper.
The stars wheel overhead in their timeless paths. We sleep, close, until wakened by the first birds of the dawn.
I shall sleep now, hoping for such a dream. Write to me soon.
Love,
Beatrice
P.S. Percy, my love. Be your boldest in your reply. Hold nothing back.
Beatrice lingered over the letter she had just received in reply to her last from Captain Carterton. She could not possibly take it down to share with the others, as had become their habit over the last few months since they had started writing to the soldiers over in South Africa. It was so much more personal than any of the letters the girls had received from the other soldiers. They wrote of the dust and the dirt, of the boredom of having little to do in a country that didn’t want them to be there. They wrote of blazing sun and of card games in the mess, and of the loneliness that engulfed them when night fell.
But Captain Carterton wrote of his dreams, of his feelings, of the things that mattered to him. Though she knew his words of love and desire were born out of loneliness and fantasy rather than from any true feeling for her, still his language was more than warm, it was positively scorching. It would be a breach of confidence to share any of his words, even the innocuous ones, with the other girls.
Bronkhorstspruit, Transvaal, September 1880
Dearest Beatrice,
My heart increased apace when I received the envelope containing your last letter, but my, when I got to your postscript my breath stopped for an eternity. I have been wanting to write all my thoughts to you, but I had barely the courage to think such thoughts of you, let alone to put my desires into words.
Many a night I lie in my tent, wondering what you look like in your undergarments. I know it is wrong of me, but a soldier must take his amusement where he can. You are an educated woman, a nurse, and I am sure you have anatomical knowledge of what happens when a lonely man thinks such thoughts.
I feel compelled to put my desires and fantasies to paper, as I do not know if this will be my last letter to reach you for some time. Perhaps it will be the last I shall ever write in my lifetime. The Boers here are getting a bit restless, and I fear we may soon see a skirmish or two. You must forgive me, my darling, if my words are too strong. I hope and pray they do not offend you.
Last night was typical of the lonely nights here. The nights are
reasonably warm, and I lie on my stretcher with just a blanket for bedding. Can you imagine me lying there? I have removed my uniform and hung it carefully from the tent pole. Being an officer I have a tent of my own and I stand naked in the cooler evening air without fear of interruption from my men.
I squint, and in my mind’s eye I can see you sitting on the edge of my stretcher in the darkness, looking at my nakedness. Already I am getting hard at the thought of lying next to you. I lie down under the coarse blanket and pushing it to the side think of your warm smooth skin next to mine instead. We are in England, where our touching is accompanied by the hoot of the tawny owl, rather than the growl of the night-hunting leopard, which is all too common here.
I can feel your breasts, soft to the touch but with hard nipples erect with arousal. As am I. Your belly rises and falls with your breathing, and you squirm slightly when I tickle you in your navel. You stop the tickling by pushing my hand lower where I rest my hand in the tangle of your soft hair.
Now I can feel
your hand sliding across my leg seeking my desperate cock. Starting slowly you slide your hand up and down, full strokes that leave me straining for control after only a few moments. Desperately my fingers seek your moist pussy to return the pleasure. Feeling your warm wetness sends me over the edge and my cock spurts across my stomach and chest. Feeling this you cry out with your own pleasure, my fingers become drenched with your climax.
Then my dream ends and I return to the reality of the Transvaal, my seed cooling on my body. I clean up with a cloth, cover myself with my blanket, and fall asleep with the thought of you next to me, the smell of your hair and the sound of your breath vivid in my mind. What a wonderful sleep!
My darling Beatrice—it is now two days since I wrote these words. I am scared to send them, what will you think? Some depraved monster that needs to be locked away? What if the army censors read my letter? I care not what they think, but I do care for you. I hope you will read my letter and think of me as a lonely soldier 6,000 miles from home, thinking of you not just with the passion of a lonely man, but with true love.
I shall send it! Then the die is cast. You will either reply or not. I hope you do.
With love,
Percy
She refolded his letter and put it away at the back of her desk drawer where no one could possibly chance on it. He must be a true rake to write such words to her, but she couldn’t deny that they heated her blood. He described lying with a woman, with her, as pleasure not as a sin.
She wondered if she would dare to reply to him in the same vein…
Six or seven of the other girls were already gathered around the table in the parlor. She drew up a chair and joined the group. They did not even notice she came empty-handed.
“My soldier is asking for a photograph,” one of them said excitedly, waving her letter in the air. “He says he wants to see what his lady correspondent looks like. Do you think I should send him one? I could have a sixpenny tintype taken by the photographer who comes to the park every Sunday.” She turned her head to look out of the window. “He is probably still there now. I could find him if I hurry.”