We both were wearing our fatigues and bundled up against the fall night air at the edge of the woods behind the mess hall. So far there was no reason to adjust our warm clothing beyond my fly being unbuttoned. My cock was out as I leaned back against a tree trunk, but it was being kept warm by Corporal Hart's mouth enveloping it.
Corporal Hart was just one of my willing boys. We'd come a long way together to Berlin and beyond from the landing at Anzio, and many of us had become as close and comforting and interested in and willing for mutual release as men could be who were on the move on their feet for two years and subject to being shot on the spot for finding their relief in women encountered along the trek across Europe. Not that it wasn't equally dangerous to be caught engaging in the release we did.
Hart looked up into my eyes, his with a pleading expression on them, asking, I knew, if I was ready to belly him against the tree, cover his back, and give him the full length and girth of my cock.
I was, and would have done so, if it hadn't been for the commotion coming from the back door of the mess hall, by the trashcans, where Cook was speaking gruffly to someone in the shadows.
"Hey, what yer doin' there? And who are you? You're not from the camp, are you? A local. A Kraut, I think."
With a sigh, I gently pushed Ted Hart back on his haunches, folded my cock back into my pants, and buttoned up as I walked toward the mess hall. Duty called. It already was nearly pitch black here below a cliff of Kehlstein Mountain in the German Alps, in the most remote southeast corner of Bavaria. Only the light from the mess hall kitchen windows, cast across the shadows of two men, one rather small and struggling and the other tall and heavy and grasping the smaller figure close, provided any context to Cook's gruff voice and answering whimpers in German. My immediate thought as I approached this tableau was that there would be some sentry I'd have to dress down. German nationals weren't allowed in the camp without escort—and not at night at all.
In fact, we had license to shoot them on sight. There were signs, in German, explaining that plastered on the compound fences.
"I found this Kraut rummaging around in the trashcans," Cook said as I walked up. "I told you that I thought there was a wild animal at the cans for the last week. Turns out it's only this little guy."
"Well, let me see what we have here," I said, as I reached them. "He doesn't look so dangerous."
And, indeed, he didn't look dangerous at all. He looked so weak and emaciated that he might be on his last legs. Pity that, I thought. He was quite a good-looking young man. Not young, young, of course. Maybe his late twenties or early thirties, but life obviously was being cruel to him. It hadn't been all that rewarding to any of us as World War II was winding down across Europe. And some of us had to walk here from the toe of the boot that was Italy.
I had taken my guys all the way to Berlin to help cut off the head of the snake there the previous May, not losing one soldier in the process. For our reward, we were sent up here into the far reaches of Bavaria to sit in a temporary camp between the mountain town of Obersalzberg, up against the lower cliffs of the Kehlstein Mountain and in the shadow of the third highest peak in the German Alps, Watzman Mountain. I don't wish to sneer at the assignment we received as we waited to be shipped home—nearly all of us to wives and children no matter what we'd gotten into for solace and relief during the last two years marching from Italy to here. We actually had a plum assignment. Obersalzberg had been the winter retreat for Adolf Hitler himself and his sycophants, built up here on the lower slopes of the Kehlstein as a retreat for the führer during the 1936 Olympics in nearby Garmish-Partenkircher.
Hitler had spent more and more time up here in the waning years of the war, and he'd stashed a lot of the loot up here that he and his cronies had pulled out of art museums all across Europe during the German occupation. My unit's job was to guard and inventory this stash until it could be properly dispersed again. We were not far from the end of accomplishing this, which was a good thing, because the winter of 1945-46 was pressing in on us, and this place would be one snow-covered iceberg come December.
And a look at the obviously starving young man in the tattered clothing and overcoat who Cook was holding by the scruff of the neck told me that it was unlikely he could survive the winter.
His eyes showed a mixture of fear and resignation. My heart turned over. I'd seen far too much of the suffering among civilians in this war. There was nothing about him that spoke soldier. He fit the bill of starving artist more. The complete look of surrender and vulnerability in his eyes moved me—and not just my heart. Cleaned up and fed he would have been almost irresistible to me and my appetites.
"Who are you and how did you get into the camp?" I asked. He looked at me with a complete lack of comprehension. So, a German refugee no doubt. Certainly not American and most certainly not belonging in this camp. I knew all of my men—more than a few of them I knew biblically.
"Are you hungry. Were you looking in the trashcans for food?"
There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, but still he said nothing. He probably knew that rummaging for food here was inviting a death bullet. He had to have been totally desperate to even contemplate risking it. At that point the assistant cook, Private Green came to the kitchen door.
"Kyle," I said to him. "Is anything left over from the night's mess?"
"We have a bit ham left and there's bread," the private answered.
"Can you make a sandwich with that please—a big one—and give it to this man, and then escort him back to the main gate, please? I'm too tired tonight to write up an incident report. But on your way back, please make a round of the sentries, let them know a civilian got into the camp. Tell them to look at every inch of fencing for a breach and report to me tomorrow. And tell them that, despite the breach, I haven't released any orders permitting target practice."
"Yes, sir," Kyle answered. When he came back with the sandwich, wrapped in a newspaper, and handed it to the young man, Cook let loose of him and I drew both Cook's attention and that of Kyle to me to ask them just not to say anything to anyone about this. We were not supposed to offer any help at all to German civilians. In the moment it took for me to do that, though, the young German had disappeared.
I sighed. I'd have to write up some sort of report after all. "I still want you to go to the sentries, Kyle, I said. I hope to God one of them doesn't shoot the young man while he's trying to get back out of the camp. But there's a breach in the fencing someplace. The only side not covered is the cliff below the Kehlstein, and that's a sheer rock wall."
A little sad now—at what war does to us all—and slightly irritated that I'd have to write up an incident report, I returned to the edge of the forest where Corporal Hart was waiting for me in the dark. Reverting to an earlier stage of our preparation, we engaged in a bit of lip play and groping before he sucked me off again. It was with weary thoughts of all we'd been through and the toll it had taken on people like that young man at the mess hall, whose hands I'd seen—the hands of a professional or artisan, not of a farmer of soldier—that I embraced Ted Hart from behind as he leaned into a tree and spread his legs, entered him deep to his moans and groans, and worked him hard to give both of us release and something more pleasant to think of than what we'd been through in the last two years.
I was finishing with Ted, holding him close in my embrace, his head turned to me, our lips meeting, and the last short spurts of my cum ejaculating into the quick of his passage when I floated up out of our "transported elsewhere" time separated from the present and slowly became aware of our surroundings again.
As I drifted back into reality, I sensed that the two of us weren't alone—that we were being observed. I slowly rotated my head around, not wanting to spook off whoever it was. But just that slight turn was enough for me to hear the crackle of pine needles underfoot deeper into the forested area. Just the glimpse I saw was of tattered clothes in browns and grays and black, and I instantaneously thought of the young German who had been caught at the trashcans.
I released Ted, who slumped against the tree trunk, and, after an affectionate stroke of his cheek, strode out in the direction in which I sensed we had been watched. But of course when I got to the tree I had marked as the figure's hiding place, no one was there.
* * * *
Cook approached me in the mess hall two evenings later as the dinner hour was drawing down and men were leaving the hall. We were in a state of unaccustomed limbo here at the base of the German Alps. The men had been warily trudging through fields, avoiding roads, where ambushes could be set, and being ever aware of their environment for years before landing here in the small camp near Obersalzberg below the Eagle's Nest, Hitler's famous mountaintop tea house that was carved out of the rock of the Kehlstein. Here, the march was over. The war was over. Presumably the danger was over, although there continued to be whispers of "lost cause" partisan cells that kept the Americans close to their camps and bases. There was little for the men to do in the evening after dinner and before night when they could surreptitiously move about their barracks into each other's beds. They lingered in the mess hall, but it was dark and growing late.
