"Per Ardua"

My dad was a fitter on Lancasters during WW2. We never met, he and I, but I hope this happened to him .... he deserved it!


"Per Ardua ad Astra" the Royal Air Force motto: 'Through difficulties to the stars.'




"Per Ardua"
by Julius
copyright 2003




Wars do funny things to a society. WW2 was no exception. The early forties saw women flooding into the Royal Air Force. And to the lowly 'erk' these soft creatures in light blue had more impact than mere Junkers and Messerschmitts.

We airmen outnumbered them, so supply never seemed to meet demand. My first sampling of a WAAF was a longtime coming. When it happened it was not as I'd expected ... what ever is?

To keep control of these flighty airwomen, WAAF officers were invented. Like their male counter partsthey were commissioned officers of The King's Air Force and were supposedly ladies and far, far out of reach of a lowly flight mechanic.

September, the sun gone and the light beginning to fade, I was alone at the dispersal. Just finish cowling up 'F' for Freddie's starboard inner and I'd be off, down the village for a pie and a pint. The squadron was stood down. We'd earned it, given recent losses.

I all but fell off the ladder when she spoke, "Airman?"

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!"

"No, Flight Officer Smythe."

"Yes ma'am?" says I, struggling to collect my wits.

She was out for a stroll and had wandered along the peri-track to our squadron. I suggested she was lucky not to have been shot by a sentry but she pointed out that they'd not shot me. Waste of time arguing with officers!

She was tall and had a nice voice. She wore a greatcoat. My greatcoat didn't bulge like that. Her blonde hair showed between cap and coat collar. F/O Smythe was quite dishy and quite untouchable.

Untouchable? Seemingly not. She unbuttoned the greatcoat and draped it over Freddie's big main-wheel tyre and then draped herself over the greatcoat. I watched, speechless, as she reached behind her and worked her skirt up the backs of her legs.

"Well?" it was a question and an order. What was an L.A.C. to do? I unbuttoned my pants and prepared to obey.

Her knickers were very white and very frilly and, I guessed, silk. They came down very easily too. She kicked free of them and they fluttered away across the black tarmac.

Her thighs and her arse were very white and very inviting in the soft evening light. She moved her feet apart and arched her back, the message couldn't have been plainer! My cock and I were nineteen years old and the former throbbed fit to explode.

F/O Smythe's nether regions were as soft and warm as her mouth was foul. The things she said, as I slammed at her against the tyre! Lucky Freddie was chocked or we'd have rolled the 'plane off onto the grass.

And she wanted second helpings, wiggling those buttocks and issuing orders. I obliged, God the heat inside her! Her language, her squirming arse! I made it again and she writhed and yowled through hers three heartbeats later.

She let me help her into the greatcoat and off she walked with not a word. My cock and I watched her go.

The following Monday my gunnery course came through.

Six weeks later I was back on the squadron with my Air Gunner's brevet stitched on my jacket.

Twenty-six sorties before a piece of Hitler's flak ended my flying career. Not many arse-end Charlies lasted that long.

As for F/O Smythe, she went through a series of Wing Commanders and Group Captains at Bomber Command HQ. Or rather, they went through her. She snagged an Air Vice Marshall in the end. He got knighted in due course and she got Lady'd.

And F/O Smythe's knickers? I'd found them caught on the barbed wire of the perimeter fence. I tucked them in my flight jacket before every trip, my lucky charm.They'd have seen even more action if they stayed with her!