Cousins at War by Doris Davidson Page B

as his increasing need became more obvious.
‘Do you want to do it lying down or standing up?’ she murmured.
    He was shivering all over, even his teeth were chattering, though it was a warm night. ‘What’s best?’
    Giggling at his ignorance, she pulled off her knickers and flopped down. He was scared at first, but Madge was a true connoisseur, a master – mistress – in the art of sex, and it
turned out to be the most thrilling experience of his life. Even in his bed in the billet much later, he perspired as he recalled it – his first time, but not the last. Definitely not the
last! He was on equal terms now with Alf Melville, who often bragged about how he had scored with whatever girl he escorted home. Madge hadn’t lasted long. She was always on the lookout for
the best chance, and when a Canadian came on the scene, she ignored Neil. At first, he had felt peeved, but there had been other girls just as willing, for he wasn’t a greenhorn any more. He
had taken Dolly home one night, Peggy another, and . . . he couldn’t remember half the names now, but none of them had objected to anything he did – in fact, they seemed disappointed if
he didn’t go all the way, and who was he to disappoint them?
    During the day, he and Alf were anxious to learn all they could about their trade. It was an integral part of their future, and they never let thoughts of girls infringe on it; they were only a
pleasurable sideline, a hobby to fill the long evenings. Mrs Woods, their landlady, teased them when they went downstairs after the evening meal with their hair plastered flat with water, and boots
polished until they could see their faces in them. ‘I don’t know what you boys do at nights,’ she smiled one day, ‘but I bet you don’t get up to no good.’
    Alf winked, lewdly. ‘What I get up to’s good.’
    ‘Me, too,’ Neil grinned, ‘and the farther up, the better.’
    She gave a scream of laughter. ‘Oh, get on wiv yer. You’ve got proper filthy minds, you ’ave. That’s all you ever think abaht, innit?’
    As all good things do, their time in Cricklewood came to an end, and the friends were posted to Larkhill in Wiltshire – Ordnance Corps but attached to the Royal Artillery
– and had to face the rigours of army life once again. Luckily, it was not as bad as at Chilwell, and the restrictions imposed on them were amply compensated for by the warmth of the locals,
who were bent on assisting them to have a good time. Free dances and concerts were laid on, and if no entertainment was provided on any specific night, some of the housewives issued invitations to
their homes. As one young gunner observed, blissfully, ‘They’re offering their daughters up for sacrifice.’ The soldiers took advantage of it, seducing the poor unfortunates
– who no doubt considered themselves fortunate to receive so much male attention – wherever and whenever an opportunity arose.
    Neil Ferris was no exception, and entered wholeheartedly into the discussions that took place back in camp about the availability and prowess of the girls. They were categorised thus: willing
and experienced, with a further breakdown on a scale of one to ten; willing but not exciting; reluctant but worth coaxing; a dead loss; out for a serious relationship – steer clear. The
accent was on enjoyment, not commitment for life, and any young man who admitted to falling in love was held to ridicule. Those who made no play for the girls were assumed to be
‘pansies’ and were left strictly to their own devices – whatever they were.
    ‘I hope the blonde with the tits like barrage balloons is there tonight,’ Alf Melville grinned with anticipation as he and Neil walked towards the nearest village hall.
‘I’m going to grab her before anyone else gets their paws on her.’
    Neil chuckled. ‘You’re welcome. That wee redhead with the wiggly arse is more my style.’
    Their man-talk – as they imagined it to be – grew coarser