Folks,

I guess the 133 running of the Kentucky Derby tomorrow is something to celebrate. They say it is the most exciting 2 minutes in sports. Perhaps it is. Especially so if you just bet the whole farm on a long shot.

I think that you would be hard pressed to actually call it sport, but 2 minutes with Olga would certainly be exciting, maybe even fatal. Frankly, the second running of this delightful story by Old Dux will take about the same time to read while being much safer. Depending on your point of view and imagination, it might even be more fun.

A WASTED LOVE...
By:Old Dux
HWH (continued)
Pg. 40
05-27-2003

Almost three weeks in Sick Bay was just about worthwhile. Fished out of the drink, suffering from exposure and burns, and then carted off to an isolated recuperation ward after prolonged treatment.

The lads from 8238 Flight attached to Manston had been cheering enough with their regular visits but he had something far more important to concentrate his mind than the bonne homme and badinage from JRT, and Co.

She had regularly attended him for five days now and he finally had to admit to himself that he had become completely smitten. He was transfixed by her beauty from their very first meeting. Their conversation had been light and free flowing and so far, never edging to any suggestion of a deeper and more profound exchange. Now he decided that a more direct approach would be needed if he was not going to miss the chance of a developing relationship.

Life had been something akin to one long party since Cranwell days and he had always been ready to use the war as an excuse to avoid permanent romantic entanglement. Now it was time to find the right woman and he had become fully convinced that she was the one.

Tomorrow morning he resolved to ask her out. Not too much pressure - just a sedate trip to Old Granny Higgins' Pie Shop. He could wire up SNAFU's Jag and they would be there in fifteen minutes or so. Then hopefully a more intimate meeting at a later date.....easy does it.

He awoke early and waited with mounting apprehension until the rattle of the breakfast trolley heralded the arrival of his object of desire. She arranged his breakfast tray and placed the daily paper within easy reach. We need not dwell on the conversation leading up to the all important invitation but time stood still while he awaited her response.

She paused...her sensuous lips quivered as though uncertainly forming the right words. "Why, of course! I'd be delighted". Canuck51's mouth gaped in disbelief but he quickly recovered to confirm his plans, his voice now assailed by a mild stammer.

"Just a minute - before I go - let me shake up your pillows." Her voice was soft, maternal, and it marshalled every masculine instinct within him.
She reached across to grip the large bolsters and proceeded to knead and pummel them into a more comfortable support. In this exercise she rocked to and fro bearing down closer to him. He could smell her perfume and detect the warmth of her body. Now the loose folds of her nurses uniform were brushing against his hairy chest and he began to feel the perspiration forming on his forehead. He gripped the sheets and closed his eyes in torment. He was fighting the urge to encompass her in his brawny , muscular arms.

Suddenly, she had finished her task and with a bright smile, wafted out of the ward with the trolley. At the third attempt he managed to croak a tremulous 'goodbye'. It was about ten minutes later that he heard the long rasping whine of someone breaking wind in the corridor. A toilet flushed and a door banged shut. Heavy footfalls stopped outside his door which had been left slightly ajar.

The door slowly opened to reveal a woman.....well, a woman of sorts. She filled the doorway with her bulk and afforded him a slow licentious smile which revealed a row of teeth that reminded him of the Officer's Mess snooker set. She closed the door and approached until, at the foot of his bed, she undid the buttons of her skirt. It fell to the floor around her size 12 boots. C51's left hand groped frantically for the call button. Next, she undid the belt which held up her drawers. This was a belt she had torn from the trousers of a Waffen SS Sergeant and was inscribed with 'Gott Mitt Uns' around the buckle.

Her drawers, which had been an exercise in wartime economy measures had been fabricated from two worn out maize sacks and they too hit the floor with a muffled thump. The early morning nimbus scudded across the leaden sky over Thrutchwell Magna and parted just long enough for a shaft of sunlight to penetrate the ward and fall directly onto her Order of Lenin.

The next day, a sickly and debilitated C51 donned his uniform for the first time in several weeks, fixed his cap at the required jaunty angle and flicked a dried scrap of seaweed from the DFC ribbon. Just then, an orderly arrived and presented him with a perfumed envelope which he opened and began to read...

Dearest Canuck51,

I am writing to say goodbye. How I had longed for you to ask me out, but now, how cruelly have my hopes been dashed. Yesterday, I returned to your ward with a cup of tea and was devastated to see you in a clinch with that dreadful ogre-slut, Olga Krutchlegova who is attached to the M.O.D. Field Latrine Commando.

I intend to mend my broken heart with a short stay at my father's 4,000 acre Scottish estate and further divert myself by assisting my solicitor in the sale of the 11 factories that were recently bequeathed to me. After that I will spend the rest of the war with another of my benefactors in the United States. He owns a large cattle estate with other adjacent lands and properties which he has amalgamated under the one name of Texas. I will just have to throw myself into some kind of war work and hopefully will get over this.

Yours in devastation,

Ophelia Hardrod.