How I Survived the War

No man who was there will forget Beach Red 1 on Tarawa. Our assault landing came on a beautiful south Pacific morning, November 1943. That day left so many indelible memories. The brilliant tropical sun, the calm azure sea; the deafening noise of battle, the hoarse screams of dying men; the whump of the flamethrower's arc into Japanese pillboxes. And the stench. The stench of blood, of cordite, of burning flesh; of excrement as men lost control of their bowels when Japanese machine guns cut them down.

The amphtracs that delivered us became stuck on the coral, so we had to jump out and wade ashore. The trac next to ours took a direct hit. I watched as men, blazing like torches, leaped screaming into the clear aquamarine water. It didn't seem real.

I never made it off the beach. I dragged a few wounded men to safety, using the bodies of their dead comrades to shield them, and then went berserk. I was so damn angry that the landing hadn't gone according to plan. Expect light resistance, they said. We Marines had even joked about native girls in grass skirts coming to meet us.

Somehow I reached an enemy machine gun nest. Screaming at the top of my lungs, I emptied a full round into it, then a second to be sure. That's when a sniper's bullet found me.

I bled like a stuck pig, but it wasn't as bad as it looked. Still, they evacuated me along with the other wounded. We spent that night on a hospital ship. After a few days the ship, laden with a full cargo of broken bodies, turned east and headed to Hawaii, then San Francisco.

I spent a week at the naval hospital, healing quickly but bothered by a slight limp. You'll have that limp for the rest of your life, they told me truthfully. As my home was only a few hundred miles away, they granted me a furlough. But first Major Grady came and had a talk with me. Don't tell civilians what happened on Tarawa, he said. Don't tell anyone what it was really like. He need not have worried.

It should have been a joyous reunion with family and friends, but it was not. I was a haunted man. My dreams were filled with Tarawa. I dreamed about men like Harold, a city boy from Chicago, a natural-born comedian. I'd held him as he bled and sobbed, "Oh God, Russ, help me! I don't want to die here!" But he did.

And I knew that this was just a brief respite. That there were more islands over there, stoutly defended by the Japanese Imperial Army. Yes, there was lots of work left for good old 2nd Regiment, 2nd Marine Division. The way I saw it, I'd already been given a death sentence, date of execution yet to be determined.

I began to hike alone through the pine forests above my parents' farm. My fifth day there, I came to a small hay barn sitting at the edge of a pasture. About a thousand years ago, I'd played in this barn as a kid, reading and daydreaming about the wonderful things the future held in store for me.

The barn actually belonged to our neighbor John Mullinex, who ran a horse ranch. I climbed the ladder up to where the loose, sweet-smelling hay was. I lay there enjoying the stillness as the recurring thought came. Why did I survive Tarawa when so many better men did not?

Shortly I heard a sound below. In the clearing next to the barn was a low water tank, about three feet in diameter, fed by a pipe from a nearby stream. A woman approached the tank, carrying a towel.

Her name, I knew, was Helen. She was in her early twenties, with reddish blonde hair, pretty in a wholesome country girl way. She was a practically a legend around here. The general consensus was that Helen had the largest, most exquisite bosom in the county. In fact, the old men agreed that they could not recall any woman blessed with such enormous and yet perfectly formed breasts.

She was three years older than me, and had been a senior when I was a freshman in high school. I remembered gazing at her in wonder then, reflecting on what God can do when He sets His mind to it.

Aside from her remarkable mammaries, Helen had a typical womanly figure, which merely accentuated her endowments. She was extremely self-conscious about her huge breasts, and usually wore loose-fitting clothes. She was also virtuous, even shy. No man, it was said, had ever gazed upon Helen's bare bosom, wondrous though it surely was.

The possible exception was Roy, a six-foot-four roughneck whom Helen had married right after high school. But Roy had a quick temper. To inquire of him about his wife's breasts, and the extent to which she displayed them at home, would be to invite a black eye and bloody nose. It had happened more than once.

So feared was Roy that when he was drafted and left for the war, no man dared flirt with Helen. The woman had a temper of her own, and kept a list. She let it be known that if any man crossed the line with her, there would be a day of reckoning when Roy came home.

I recalled that the house where Helen and Roy lived was about a hundred yards away. Like many in those days, it had no indoor plumbing. Has she come here to perform her daily ablution, I wondered? The answer was yes. With a quick glance, as wary and alert as a deer, Helen began to unbutton the front of her gingham dress.

She undid it to the waist, pulled her arms out, and let the dress fall around her wide hips. With a quick movement she unsnapped her sturdy brassiere and tossed it on the grass near the water tank.

Helen's breasts were even larger than I had imagined. Creamy, near perfect globes, just slightly pendulous. Of course the areola were expansive, almost five inches in diameter. But her pinkish-brown nipples were small. No child had suckled there.

I honestly did not gaze upon Helen's naked breasts so much with licentiousness as awe. It was like viewing a marvel of nature, say Yosemite Falls or the glorious sunsets that we enjoyed in the western Pacific just before Tarawa.

But my cock did begin to stir greatly as Helen took the soap and washed her face and arms, finally moving down to lather those magnificent breasts, taking her time in doing so. She then dipped them into the water and had just finished rinsing off when a sound caught her attention. She looked to the right, and then quickly gathered her towel and brassiere.

I watched Helen dash toward the opening that ran the length of the barn. A few seconds later she came scurrying up the ladder into the hayloft, still undressed. Then she saw me. She gasped, her great blue eyes widening as she emitted an almost inaudible "Omigod!"

We stared at each other in amazement for a few seconds, I likewise stunned by this turn of events. But then came a deep voice from outside. "Who's up there in the hayloft? Show yourself, I say!"

I looked back at Helen; then, climbed up to the timber-framed bay at one end of the loft. In the clearing below was John Mullinex on his black quarter horse. A 30.06 rifle rested in his free hand.

"It's me, Mr. Mullinex," I said, "Russell Jones."

Mullinex eyed me keenly. "You Lloyd Jones' boy?"

"Yes sir."

"What you doin' in my barn?"

"I was out walking, thought I'd climb up here to rest a while."

"You ain't smokin', are you?"

"No sir."

"Don't allow smokin' around my barns," he said gruffly. "One spark 'n she'll go up like a bonfire."

"Yes sir."

Mullinex placed the rifle back in its scabbard; then, turned to me again. "I thought you was in the service."

"Yes sir. I'm in the Marines now; home on furlough."

"Well, guess you boys do need some rest, from what I've been readin' in the papers. Probably best you stay on your own property from now on, though."

"Yes sir."

With that Mullinex took the reins and spurred his horse into a light canter. In a few moments he had disappeared below the hill. I turned to look at Helen. She was still undressed, holding the towel in front of her, eyes blazing with fury.

"Oh you son of a bitch!" she hissed." I'm gonna tell your daddy that you were spying on me, that you're a peeping tom. And I'm gonna tell Roy too, when he comes home!"

I silently regarded her, pondering the situation. After a few seconds she continued. "Well, now that you've got your eyes full, you bastard, would you mind turning your back so I can get dressed?"

I paused, then said, "No, Helen. I want to see your breasts again. And I want to caress them, and kiss them too."

"Ooh!" cried Helen in disbelief. Her cheeks now bright crimson, she struggled for words, gasping for breath. It crossed my mind that she might just faint dead away in front of me.

"What...what ... what on God's green earth makes you think for one second that I'd let you do such a thing?" she finally managed to utter.

"Because you owe me that."

"Owe you! Owe you! What in the hell are you talking about!"

I paused for dramatic effect. "Helen, it wasn't me that Mr. Mullinex heard up here in the loft, it was you. And if I hadn't been here to talk to him, he would right now be climbing that ladder. And he would find you in his hayloft, half naked."

Just like that, the color drained from Helen's face. Once again came a sharp intake of breath; once again came a faint "Omigod!"

John Mullinex was considered a good horse rancher, but around women he was no more than an animal. Twice rape charges had been filed against him, one dropped and the other settled out of court. Years ago he had been married, but after a few months his wife went back to her family, giving her brother orders to shoot John Mullinex on sight. The local women were as frightened of him as if he were a rabid dog.

And he was fearless. He was not afraid of Roy or any man. Had I not been here, Helen would now be staring into his feral yellow eyes, with no escape. I could see these thoughts pass through her as if I were a mind reader.

Her shoulders slumped. "I guess you've got a point. But look, you've already seen me, for heaven's sake, and no man besides Roy has ever seen me. Isn't that enough?"

"No."

She was regaining some composure. "I could tell Roy, you know. If I told him you watched me, and wanted to touch me, I mean, he'd beat the hell out of you. Aren't you afraid of him?"

"Ever hear of a place called Tarawa, Helen?"

She shrugged. "I hear lots of funny names on the radio these days. Is that somewhere you fought?"

"Yes. And there was nothing funny about Tarawa, believe me."

"So what are you saying?"

"I was wounded at Tarawa, barely made it. And after this furlough, in a few months they'll take us back over there where another island, as bad as Tarawa or worse, will be waiting. So I believe in the inevitable. In Japanese mortar, and snipers, and machine guns. With that waiting for me, why should I fear Roy?"

In the war, a lot of guys used that line to get women to sleep with them: I could soon die for my country; I deserve some pleasure now. But the thing is, I actually meant it. Most Marines that I knew chose not to think of what might happen to them. They just hoped and prayed for the best. But realists like me saw where the percentages lay. After Beach Red 1, could you blame me?

I have often wondered what thoughts went through Helen's mind during the next half minute. But then, without a word she laid the towel aside and sat, hands in lap, gazing at me with a look of acceptance mixed with resentment.

I quickly moved down to where she sat, paused, and looked deeply into her blue eyes. Then I raised my hands and began to move them gently around the bottom and sides of her breasts, savoring the warmth and heft of them. They were amazingly soft yet at the same time oh so firm. At no time did my eyes leave Helen's.

A moment passed. The air seemed electric. I do not recall hearing a single sound during that time.

When I had taken the full measure of her bosom with my hands, I leaned down and began to softly kiss her breasts. First at the great cleavage between the two globes, then moving over to enjoy her areola and nipples. Helen smelled of Lux soap, underneath which was the faint musky odor of woman. It was an intoxicating mix.

Finally I drew away and met her eyes again. "Thank you, Helen," I said quietly. Bring on the Japanese gunners, I thought. At least now I can die remembering the feel of Helen's superb breasts.

"Is that all you want of me?" Now a different look was on her face, a rosy glow on her cheeks.

"I'm open to suggestions."

She grasped my arms. "Tell me the truth, Russ, are you clean? You don't have any disease that I could catch."

"Helen, I've never even been with a woman."

"What! Come on! You're a Marine! All those whorehouses around your bases, and you're telling me that you're still a virgin?"

"Yes. But don't tell the other Marines."

Helen was of course skeptical, but we had passed the point of no return. She rose up and pulled the gingham dress over her head, showing roomy white bloomers beneath. They were loose around her legs, trimmed with ruffles.

I hadn't really anticipated this, but the Corps trains you to deal with the unexpected. In a few seconds I had stripped down to my boxers, and drew the naked Helen to me, now relishing the feel of her enormous mounds against my bare chest as we kissed. "Easy, easy," she murmured, "not so rough."

I was a quick study. Soon she was sighing with pleasure at our kisses, "Mmm, that's nice.." Now my hands explored the rest of her, discovering that any part of a woman is just about as enjoyable as any other part. It's all quite delightful.

Helen spread her dress on the hay and lay on it, legs slightly open, bent at the knees. Her pubic hair, a full thatch of deep auburn color, fascinated me. I lay beside her; our kisses became more intense. She finally murmured, "Don't make me wait all day, fella."

I mounted her, and she used her hand to guide my cock to where it wanted to be. With a long slow thrust I entered Helen. The feel of her silky-smooth pussy, a warm and wet sheath embracing my cock, left me breathless. I never imagined that anything could feel like that. I never imagined that such pleasure existed. I wanted it to last for hours at least, but too soon came my climax, almost unbearable in its sheer sweet intensity.

When it was over we lay breathing heavily, each with a strawberry-colored flush below our throats. Helen smiled, caressing my shoulders. "You've had me now," she said quietly, "so you can tell the truth. Was that really your first time ever?"

"Uh huh. I've never felt the urge to do it just to prove I'm a man like most guys. I know it sounds kinda girlish, but I wanted that first time to be special, you know. Maybe I was waiting for something like this."

She kissed me gently. "You're not as big as Roy, if you know what I mean."

"Thanks. Just what a guy wants to hear."

"No, it's a good thing. Sometimes he hurts me down there. But you, you're just right. A perfect fit."

Perhaps because we were a perfect fit, I met Helen in the barn loft just about every day for the next two weeks. Sometimes she would even bring a lunch basket, so that we could snack in between times. On our second tryst, I said, "I've got some condoms. Don't you think I should use them?"

"No need," she said. "Roy was home on furlough too, about three months ago, and since then I've not had a period. I'm pretty sure there's something baking in the oven."

I smiled at her. "And you wouldn't be doing this if that wasn't the case?"

She answered with an angelic smile of her own. "Of course not. What kind of wife do you think I am?"

That day, just as I climaxed, Helen's body began to glow with intense heat. "Don't stop, Russ!" she said through gritted teeth. "Dear God in heaven, don't you dare stop!"

I obeyed her command, and a moment later I heard her voice, deep and throaty, "Oh my dear Lord! Oh God! Ah, ah, mmmm!" This went on for a good two minutes. Only later would I realize how deeply she had dug her nails into my back. Pain for pleasure, I reckoned.

"My lord!" she exclaimed afterwards, lying in my arms, bathed in sweat, "was that what I think it was?"

"I guess so. I've heard rumors that women can do it too."

"Oh brother!" she cried. "That was ever so nice." It's my first time, you know."

"Does that make us even now?" I asked. Helen smiled contentedly. The look on her face told me that she wanted to savor that experience again. And again.

As good as Helen's pussy felt, as intense as were our climaxes, what I remember most is the intimacy. The long minutes, sometimes stretching for hours, as we lay just enjoying the closeness of each other, talking idly as lovers do. For years afterwards, I could recall with remarkable clarity those moments: the scent of her body mixed with hay, the intense blue of her eyes, the silky feel of those massive breasts.

And something changed in me. I believe that some men die in war just because they do not have a good enough reason to live. But Helen gave me that reason.

After our hayloft rendezvous, I realized that the world was filled with women who could give the same pleasure that she did. Women who smelled as good, whose butts were just as ripe and firm, whose laugh could lift the spirits as did hers. So that's what I lived for. Nothing noble or gallant, just the sweet soft feel of a woman. A man could do worse.

I returned to my unit, and of course six months later the 2nd Division landed on another beautiful but deadly island. I would not have survived Saipan without the will to live that Helen gave me. Even with that, there were close calls. I left Saipan with a worse limp than ever. A piece of shrapnel caught me at almost the same place as did the bullet on Beach Red 1. It was just bad luck.

And I lost my right eye to a mortar round. The Japanese were determined to whittle me down, it seemed, but fortunately our unit was relieved. The war ended before any more of me was lost.

The next time I saw Helen was in the local Baptist church after the war. She and Roy had a two-year old daughter in tow, which she introduced as Nancy. And Helen was pregnant again, about four months along. The woman was as fertile as she was buxom.

My own companion was Anna, a tall brunette with warm brown eyes. I had not tasted Anna's charms to the extent that I had Helen's, but what I had sampled thus far pleased me. Enough to know that she would give a man a lifetime of carnal pleasure, the thoughts of which had sustained me through Saipan.

Later Roy and I sat outside, smoking cigarettes. I knew that Helen could never tell him about our hayloft encounters, and of course she had not. Having a husband with a quick temper cuts both ways.

Helen and Anna stood chatting a short distance away. Their body language indicated that they liked each other, might even become good friends. Although not as endowed as Helen, Anna's bosom was full and ripe. The material of her flower print dress was stretched tightly across those breasts. Because of Helen I was, and always would be, a breast man.

Nancy clutched the hem of her mother's dress. Odd, I thought, but the little tyke was, in a sense, there with Helen and me during those hours of passion.

"Shame about your knee," Roy said, one brother in arms to another, "and that eye too. But at least you've got all those medals to show for it."

"It wasn't a fair trade," I said, not without bitterness.

Roy waxed philosophical. "You wanna know what got me through that war? The thought of how good a woman feels, and what it's like to come home to one. Was it that way with you, Russ?"

"Yes," I replied with a slight smile, "it was pretty much that way with me too."