Loe raamatut: «Under Her Uniform»

Under Her Uniform

Isobel “Bob” Hailey was unaccustomed to the weight of an Enfield rifle, but Captain Meyer had been insistent. She had a long trek to carry new orders to Private Mason and Corporal Southey, currently toward the far end of their thin defensive line, the end currently being pounded too hard for its actual defensive worth. She didn’t think the rifle would be anything but a burden. Better to be prepared, Meyer had said. Men liked their guns, felt safer with them in their hands.

Hailey was sure Meyer had not been so cautionary before he’d found out she was a woman in disguise, before they’d been lovers. But he was her commander. She took the rifle. It would not protect her from shellfire; but she didn’t want to waste time arguing. She liked Mason, and she especially liked Southey, who never cheated at cards, and had been kind to her at a difficult time. She didn’t want them to get blown up through any fault of hers.

Her boots shuddered the slimy duckboards as she trotted through the section of the trench some wag had nicknamed Sweet Sally’s Skirt. The Christmas quiet was long over. Blythe, Isaacs and Jones clustered around the fire step, taking turns playing tag with German snipers across the way. Bullets puffed into the parados above and behind their heads. Hailey checked her helmet and squeezed past, glad she wasn’t very tall.

Southey was stationed a good two miles down the way, past a maze of half-constructed communication trenches and false alleys. He was supposed to pretend there was a whole squad down there with him; Mason’s duty was similar. These trenches were therefore fairly empty, barring the occasional stick with a helmet on top, and stray bits of canvas hung to mimic occupation.

The traverses kept her from moving too quickly; she had to keep changing directions, like walking a giant maze. It was easy to fall into a sort of trance of boot heels thumping and webbing equipment clanking and everywhere the smell of dirt; dirt beneath her and dirt to either side of her and dirt reaching over her head. Dirt on her boots, dirt on her uniform, inside her collar, dirt on her exposed hands and face. The late afternoon sky overhead seemed an unlikely blue, as if it ought to be dirt-colored, too.

She was sweating with the walk, and beneath her uniform tunic and gray shirt, the bindings she wore tight around her breasts chafed as they grew damp. It felt queer to be away from the usual crowded conditions. She hadn’t had this much privacy in weeks. For a distraction, she stopped for a swig from her canteen, leaning against the trench wall and staring up at the sky, dreaming. She could spare a few moments for that, while she caught her breath.

Usually, if she had a moment to herself, Captain Meyer would come to mind; she’d remember the last time she’d been on leave, together with Meyer and Lieutenant Daglish, maybe going through what they’d done together, a step at a time, trying to remember each sensation, or maybe imagining what she’d like to do with them the next time they were together. The physical crowding in the trenches, and the related necessary intimacies of personal hygiene, left her craving time to herself. At the same time, she would crave removing the distance that, of necessity, one had to keep from her fellows. Those times of true intimacy with the two men, when she could be her own self, were thus a great relief, unfolding something in her that normally was wadded up tight inside. Fantasy was the next best way to remember herself.

Today, to her surprise, her mind went to Corporal Southey, not in a general way but specifically his fine rear end. She’d been working with him a great deal more lately, and he’d been more on her mind. She’d had to be careful not to let her interest show, because her interest would be sure to be misinterpreted. Or not misinterpreted; interpreted exactly as it was. A thrill of unease rushed down her throat and into her belly, but it wasn’t really unease, not quite.

She shouldn’t be thinking of him, pretty face or not. She had to work with the man nearly every day and keep her wits about her so as not to betray herself. That was her rule, how she’d kept her secret for this long: she was always conscious of her pretense.

Southey’s image came back, insistent. She shivered a little. She really shouldn’t, but that was why she was thinking of him, she knew.

No one was nearby, not for a good long distance, but she looked left and right and, feeling foolish, scrambled up the revetment just enough to glance over the parapet. Seeing no one, she dropped back and leaned against the wall with a nervous puff of breath.

Fine. She wasn’t going to be able to shake this need to let her mind wander, so she would take refuge in another fantasy, one of her favorites. She took another drink from her canteen, screwed the lid back on, and hung it from her webbing before she started walking again, this time letting her thoughts fly where they would.

In her mind, she was in a small house, not one she’d ever lived in, but the one belonging to the rector of the suburb where she’d grown up; except in this fantasy, the house was hers. Not the bedroom—she shied away from that—but the drawing room she’d glimpsed once through an open doorway, with its overstuffed chintz-upholstered sofa and settee, and the stiff chairs all embroidered on the seats, and the china shepherd and his flock on the mantelpiece. The long curtains were open at the front window, letting the sun shine in, little dust motes flickering, instead of the way the rector’s wife had always kept it, with the curtains drawn and the drapes as well. A great deal of the pleasure of this fantasy was in redecorating it to suit her tastes.

On the sofa, lounging at his ease with a cup of tea, was Andrew Southey.

He was in uniform. That wasn’t right—she could imagine the dirt, all over the pretty chintz. That thought made him naked and she hurriedly crushed that. She tried to think about the old-fashioned fern trapped in a dome that used to live in the fireplace alcove, which she’d always wanted to set free with a well-aimed fire iron.

Southey didn’t leave. In fact, he was casting an eye over the ornaments, as if trying to decide which one to pocket.

She decided to put him in a charcoal-colored suit, tailored to a fare-thee-well, because when she’d been trying to make a living as a tailor, wouldn’t she have loved having a form like his to set off in the latest style from London? His upright shoulders, tapering down his torso, would perfectly fill out a jacket of fine wool, and a crisp waistcoat would beautifully set off his slender waist. Maybe a bright peacock-blue to go with his eyes. Her hand would shape his shoulders and trace that torso all the way down to his hips, smoothing out the jacket. He would have a good clean line at his hipbone, and she knew exactly how she would cut the pocket, and how the trousers ought to be pressed so they would hang down the front of his thigh.

Then she ran into the difficulty she often had with her fantasies. She was too practical to just imagine herself into the scene. What was he doing at the rector’s house? No, it was her house.

If she was going to have a fantasy, it might as well be a good one. Southey was visiting because he was courting her. She owned the house and she didn’t have to work, though she did make her own dresses. Satisfied, she placed herself on the settee…but she was wearing a suit, as well. A man’s suit.

And…she didn’t want to be wearing a dress. The thought made her want to churn her legs against the layers of fabric to free them for easy movement. Perhaps later she would go back to the dress.

She tried to imagine small talk, but the thought of a sturdy brown pot of hot black tea, served with sugar and fresh milk, was almost more than she could bear without salivating. She hadn’t even got to the crisp, buttery biscuits encrusted with white sugar yet.

Perhaps they’d save the biscuits for after, once they’d worked up an appetite. She was stretched out on the sofa, her suit jacket slung over the back of a chair, her tie yanked askew, her collar popped open, Southey’s long body stretched out over hers, his wet mouth open over her throat while his hand yanked her shirttails loose from her trousers. She squirmed up against him, trying to open her legs more widely, to press her cunt against the hard cock that stretched his trouser leg, to rub hard and satisfy the deep ache consuming her from head to toes. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his back, skidded over the smooth wool of his jacket, dug in again when he said her name: “Isobel. Oh, Isobel.”

Ice ran down her back. She stopped short, smelling dirt and the faint whiff of decaying bodies from No Man’s Land out beyond the parapet.

No. Her name was Bob. That was enough. And when she was dressed as a man, that was her name. She needed to stick with it. Two men already knew her real name. It was too dangerous for any others to also know. This wasn’t going to be that kind of fantasy, not one that could get her into serious trouble.

She started walking again, and fell more easily back into her fantasy than she would have thought. Southey’s gorgeous fantasy suit would end up every which way on the rug; she would brush it for him after, and press it, making sure he hadn’t lost any buttons. For now, he’d be lying on the sofa, on his back, one leg braced on the floor, damp hair stuck to his forehead, his smooth chest rising and falling as he looked up at her. He was smiling, that grin he had that could charm even the dourest French housewife out of some cheese or flour sacks or an old shovel or whatever else it was they needed. It was the sort of smile that invited you to share the joke.

Even Hailey would smile back at him. She still wore a shirt, though with the collar removed: fine linen that flowed down over her unbound breasts and rucked up at her hips where she straddled him; in this dream the sofa was wider than she remembered it, and there was room for her knees to go either side of his slim hips. His cock pressed right there. She knew what it looked like, because at one time or another she’d seen most of the men under Meyer’s command in some degree of undress, whether with tunics and uniform shirts off for hard labor or bathing in a pond or picking lice from the seams of their clothes.

There were no lice in this drawing room, there was no cresol soap, there was no damned mud. In fact, he smelled of Pear’s Soap along with good clean male sweat and arousal.

She stumbled on a stray stone and quickly righted herself. She had another good ten minutes before she reached her first destination.

Southey’s hair was pale blond, but his eyebrows were just a bit darker, and he was clean shaven. His eyes were dark blue, like the blue paint on expensive china. A long, slender nose and clean-cut cheekbones and jaw would seem almost too fine to be real, except she’d seen him filthy and cursing with blood running down his face. She traced the curve of his eyebrow with her fingertip, then one of those high cheekbones and around to his ear. He smiled and reached for her, drawing her down to him and holding her close, her breasts pushing into his firm chest.

Her hips would be snug against him, too, if her legs were between his. If she could press right up against him, right into his cock, she’d hear his little mmm of a man well pleased and wanting more. She’d want to encourage more of those sounds, please him because she liked him so much and wanted him to be happy. And wanted him to want to please her.

She’d reach down and find his cock, let it nestle into her palm, calloused just enough to make him twitch and want more. She would tease underneath his foreskin with the tip of her thumb and squeeze, very gently, pulling only enough to make him push his hips forward, begging for a little more. Maybe then she’d wriggle down his body and nuzzle his balls, lick his hipbone and the crease of his leg, all the while tugging on his cock until his hand came down on the back of her head, begging her silently to take him in her mouth.

No, he wouldn’t do that. Not silently. That wasn’t like Southey. He’d grin and cajole and tell her what a lovely mouth she had and how he’d be so honored to have her suck him. He wouldn’t be lying, either. Hailey watched people very carefully, all the time. She was good at recognizing liars. Southey might be a flatterer, but she’d noticed, he never flattered with something that was truly untrue. He could always find something good about a person. Not many people could do that.

She’d take him in her mouth a half-inch at a time, stretching her mouth around him, using her tongue to taste every bit of him. She’d use her hand at his base, to hold him tight until he begged her to move, to suck, and then she’d take him so far down her throat that he’d groan and cry out. And she would have done it, her. She would have had him in her power, would have given him that ultimate pleasure.

She wanted him. All right, she really did. Not just for an imaginary tumble. The charming bastard. She didn’t know much about him, not really, even though in other ways, day-to-day ways, she knew everything. He was a good man to have on your side, and covering your back.

If only he could see her truly, as she was. If only.

No use regretting that. She’d made her choice. She couldn’t give it up now, not when she’d been in the army for so long, not when her mother and sister depended on her to keep them fed and housed and clothed.

She would make do. She didn’t have to like it. That was the way of the world. You did what you had to do, like it or not. Her dear old dad hadn’t done that; he’d run off and left them, a wife and a little girl and a babe in arms. Damned if she’d do the same. She’d see it through, lice and mud and all.

She found Mason halfway to her final destination, cursing over a jammed rifle; she sent him back up Sweet Sally’s Skirt. Once he’d hurried off, a round of shelling—probably testing out distances before the real bombardment that night—obliterated the sound of her boots. She ducked down, slung the rifle on her back, and clapped her hands over her ears for a few moments’ respite. When it let up, she gritted her teeth and continued on her way.

At last, she spotted Southey’s slender figure on a makeshift sandbag fire step. He fired repeatedly, trying to pretend he was more than one man—at twenty rounds a minute, he could make a good job of it, she knew.

She could barely hear the answering fire from their opposing trench, only see puffs of dust as the bullets thumped into the sandbagged parapet.