Georgia's English Rose

JT Harding

Published by JT Harding at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 JT Harding

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This version of Georgia’s English Rose is a
modification of the original release of April 2011

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My name is
Lillian Delamere, and three days after my eighteenth birthday I
found myself assigned to a posting on the south coast of England.
The year was 1940, the war ten months old and my posting so secret
no one told me where I was going, what I would be doing, or how I
would be doing it. The war had changed my plans, as it had changed
the plans of everyone in the country, everyone in the world.

I had started at Cambridge the previous
September, the first female in my family to attend university. If
not for the intervention of Hitler I would have remained there. The
period we later called the phony war had ended, our troops thrashed
in Belgium and France and sent packing from Dunkirk, but even so as
I travelled in the back of an army truck through narrow lanes I had
every expectation by next year, at worst the year after, I would be
picking up my life again and re-starting my studies in
Mathematics.

I arrived at the start of May with trees
coming into full leaf. The weather had been fine for weeks and I
had high hopes of a good summer. With luck I might be near enough
to the coast to fit in some swimming, even a little sunbathing if
the beaches did not hold too many troops.

I grew used to the constant wolf whistles,
the shouts asking for a kiss—or worse. I had no delusions of my
being a great beauty. The soldiers were tired and afraid, most of
them barely out of school and they would have whistled at my
granny, and she had been dead five years.

I spent two weeks training in Cornwall
before being driven in a covered truck to a collection of wooden
huts, recently built on a flat plain with hills to the north and a
clear view south to the distant sea. No one told us the name of the
camp. We lined up in two rows on the parade ground. An NCO, too old
to fight but plenty tough enough to bully a group of young women,
told us to turn around and place our hand on the shoulder of the
person in front. That person would be our room-mate. So it was I
met Georgia.

Georgia filled her blue WAAF uniform far
better than the rest of us. Although matching me almost exactly in
height, the resemblance went no further. If Georgia and I walked
past a troop of soldiers I knew where all their eyes, and all their
whistles, would be directed.

We walked together across the wide parade
ground and dropped our sparse kit in the hut assigned to us, sat on
narrow beds facing each other, our knees almost touching.

I put my hand out. “I’m Lillian Delamere.
Pleased to meet you.”

“Georgia Payne.” She shook my hand. “I love
the accent.”

“What accent?” I asked innocently. I noticed
how soft her hand felt within mine, released her fingers with
reluctance.

“You Brits.” She laughed. “I guess we’d
better learn to get along together.”

I had never met anyone as exotic as Georgia,
and I think the moment she laughed, dark curls tumbling around her
face, was the moment I started falling in love.

“You’re American,” I said, stating the
obvious. “If it’s not too rude to ask, what are you doing here?
This isn’t your war. Not yet, anyway.”

Georgia stared long enough for me to become
uneasy, her eyes tracking over my face and briefly down across my
chest before she finally made a decision and I saw with relief we
were going to be friends.

“My Pop’s a Brit. He came back over when war
broke out and brought us all with him. I’m not going to sit on the
sidelines while that shit Hitler kicks sand in everyone’s face so I
joined up too.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Just my luck, huh? I was due to start at
CalTech this fall. I guess that’s on the back burner now.”

“What’s CalTech?” I asked.

“College. University.”

“Ah, of course. Me too. At Cambridge though,
not CalTech. And I started last year.”

“Yeah? What do you major in?”

“Sorry?” It dawned on me this was going to
be harder than I thought. Naively I assumed we spoke the same
language.

“Study. What do you guys say, what are you
gonna read?”

“Mathematics,” I said.

“Yeah? Me too. Small world, hey?”

I laughed. “I think that’s why we’re here,
Georgia. We’ve both had the training. I expect they want people who
understand numbers and can see patterns.”

“Yeah,” she said, laughing back. “I guess
you’re right, Lil.” It was the first time anyone had ever called me
Lil, and I liked the way it sounded on Georgia’s lips as her accent
drew the word out.

We started work the
following morning as six, sitting in darkened huts watching a
single trace run across an oscilloscope screen. Our training had
taught us what we needed to do, but not how the equipment worked.
We had been assigned to one of the first RDF stations. Soon many
more would be erected, the tall towers and strung cable forming an
invisible barrier between Britain and Hitler’s aircraft.

RDF was the forerunner of RADAR. I read many
years later that German Radar was far superior to ours but more
difficult to build and operate. Someone had said: “RDF was second,
if not third best. But second best was better than no best, and
that’s what we worked with.”

Georgia and I operated as a team, spending
most of our time in the equipment room together. In those early
days our scanning lines only moved when a training plane came in.
We would tune our receiver and call out distance and elevation.
Before long the signals we picked up came from German bombers and
fighters. As spring gave way to early summer the planes became more
frequent, flying at night as well as during the day and we worked
longer shifts, twelve hours on, twelve hours off. Sometimes we
slept in the dark. Other times we pulled the blackout curtains over
our window to block the sun. Trying to sleep in the day was
difficult, the huts heating up until we lay on our narrow beds with
sweat pouring from our bodies.

Our hut had been erected in haste and as
long as we lived there the smell of fresh pine stayed with us,
rough planks oozing sap where knots had been cut. A long central
corridor gave access to three rooms on each side. Each room housed
two girls, held two single beds made of grey metal covered in hard
horsehair mattresses, and a sink which ran only cold water. Two
toilets, one at each end of the corridor, served twelve girls. This
was our home. There was no bath or shower in the huts. Twice a week
we used communal showers in the wash block, where the residents of
each hut stripped to be allowed five minutes standing under tepid
water. I had always been shy. Even during my years in a girls
school I had not been comfortable displaying my body. Now any
inhibitions I had were soon knocked from me.

The first time we went to the shower block I
tried hard not to stare at Georgia as the twelve of us stripped
from our uniforms and stepped into the long concrete-walled room
studded with shower heads. Tried and failed. I noticed some of the
other girls looking too. It was difficult not to. Georgia was
magnificent. As tall as me, but where I had short red-brown hair
Georgia’s was black and full, falling in curls to her shoulders.
Her large and shapely breasts quivered, trembling as she soaped
herself without any hint of shame. I gazed in awe, believing her
breasts ought to sag a little under their own weight, but instead
they stood firm and proud, their deep undersides never once
touching her body. When Georgia dropped the soap and bent to pick
it up I turned away so no-one would catch me staring at the flared
globes of her rear. She was perfection, waist nipped in above her
hips, legs long and shapely. I knew I didn’t like boys, but until
that moment I hadn’t realized quite how much I liked girls.

As time passed it became impossible to hide
from myself how quickly, how deeply, I was falling in love with
Georgia. I did everything I could to avoid showing any indication
of my true feelings, even sometimes being deliberately rude, but
whatever I did her smile and laugh remained, twisting my heart into
knots.

A troop of soldiers were stationed on the
base for security and many of the girls made clear their
availability, although I never once saw any indication from
Georgia.

I still clearly recall one particular
evening when I first set eyes on an erect penis. We were
walking back from the NAAFI at dusk, light still holding in the sky
but little reaching the shadowed ground between the huts. We had
stepped around a corner, using a short cut on the way to our hut,
when Georgia grabbed my arm and pulled me back. Her teeth showed
white in the gloom.

“Hey, look, Lil. Can you see what Gilly
Bates is doing?”

“I didn’t see her,” I said.

Georgia pulled me so I could look around the
corner. “There,” she said. “You see now?”

I peered into the gloom, seeing nothing at
first, then a shape formed in the shadows. Or rather two shapes.
Gilly Bates knelt on the grass in front of a soldier. His uniform
trousers hung loose around his knees, his hard penis jutting out.
Gilly had the end in her mouth as her hand rubbed the base.

“What on earth is she doing!” I said,
shocked.

“Giving him the time of his life, honey,”
Georgia said.

“Is she… is that his… oh my God, Georgia,
she’s got his dick in her mouth!”

“Yeah,” Georgia nodded. “She’s going for it
too, I’ll give her that.”

“But… why would she want to do that?”

“Why do you think, Lil? I guess some girls
like the taste.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I could
never…”

Georgia laughed softly, bumping against my
shoulder. “I guess you couldn’t, could you, Lil? That doesn’t
surprise me, honey.”

“You’ve never… have you…” I stared at her
open mouthed, my head spinning at the idea Georgia’s beautiful
mouth might do something like that.

“Me? Hell no, Lil. You won’t catch me
anywhere near one of those things.”

My heart pattered in my breast. “I should
think not,” I said, and the way I sounded sent Georgia off into
another peal of laughter.

“Hey, who’s there!” a male voice called.

Georgia pulled me back, but we had been
spotted.

“Is that you Lil? Georgia?” I heard Gilly’s
voice and she started to laugh. “You want some of him, girls? He’s
got plenty to go around.”

Georgia grabbed my hand and tugged me back
around the corner and we ran off across the parade ground giggling.
My hand felt cold and lonely when she finally released her
grip.

We became best friends and, I like to think,
more than friends, although I never gave Georgia any indication of
my true feelings. I found reading Georgia more difficult. She
always appeared relaxed and different, so tactile, thinking nothing
of slipping her arm around my waist in the hut, but never outside,
sometimes resting her hand low down where my skinny backside tried
to fill my uniform skirt. I became, if anything, more reserved
around her, standing at the other end of the shower room, but my
strategy didn’t work because Georgia always strolled down to join
me.

The other girls were friendly, but there
always seemed a distance between Georgia and I and the rest.
Everyone regarded us as best friends and an unspoken rule existed
we should not be parted. We ate together, rode into town to watch
newsreels and films together, took walks across the downs, ate at
the same table and slept separated by three feet of space between
our beds.

Four weeks after we met, in the middle of
July, I first heard Georgia when she thought I lay asleep. I
listened to the noises coming from the darkness of her bed for
several nights until I resolved I simply had to confirm my
suspicions.

The bedroom wasn’t fully dark, it never was.
A night light always burned in case we were called out unexpectedly
and needed to find our way. I lay on my back gazing at the ceiling,
listening to the sounds coming from Georgia’s bed. The metal
springs needed little encouragement to squeak, and I heard them
moving in a gentle rhythm. I had listened to these noises every
second or third night for almost two weeks. There could be only one
cause, and the thought made the breath catch in my chest.