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THE BATTLE OF THE CROTCH BULGE
By anonymous.a
On December 15, 1944 I found myself huddled in a frozen foxhole outside the Ardennes in Belgium, praying for anything but a white Christmas.
And one more minute with Carson.
I was a private in the U.S. Army. I had volunteered for service when I turned 18 because the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and all the guys in my town were joining up. Instead of shipping me out to a jungle somewhere in the South Pacific, the Army, in its wisdom, decided to send me east, to England, where I boarded a liberty ship and waded ashore at Normandy. The date was June 7, 1944, and I had missed the big show. But not to worry. Once we went inland there were plenty of opportunities to fire my weapon, and be fired upon.
It didn’t take me long to figure out war isn’t the glamorous adventure the recruiting posters and newsreels make it out to be. War is pain, and blood, and bone-rattling terror. By December, after following General Patton’s high-speed push through hedgerow country across France and a near annihilation of German forces near Falaise, I was ready for a shower, a hot meal, and a night’s sleep without worrying about some crazed Hitler Youth teenager slitting my throat.
Our unit was sent to Belgium, where there wasn’t supposed to be much action. This wasn’t my idea of R&R but it was better than anything I had experienced in the past five months. We dug our foxholes — blasted them out of the frozen earth with hand grenades is what we really did — and thanked our heavenly father nobody was lobbing mortars into our perimeter.
The Germans were said to be on the other side of the forest, and as if to confirm that fact every now and again an artillery shell would land somewhere within a mile or two, reminding us that in fact, we were at war. I think they did that just to keep us awake at night. Sleep was as much a luxury as a hot shower or a home-cooked meal, neither of which we had enjoyed in recent memory.
Carson and I shared a foxhole, and we made ours special. Once we were able to get under the frozen surface layer of dirt — Carson called it “permafrost” but that’s not really what it was — the digging became easier, but not by much. In war movies you see guys digging foxholes with tiny folding shovels. The truth is fucking tree roots invade every square inch of dirt the first 6 feet down, which makes digging a foxhole a “challenge.” Hand grenades worked better than tiny shovels. We blasted ourselves a roomy foxhole and positioned a tarp over the top, fixing it in place with rocks. At one point we had to erect a pole in the middle to create a slope; otherwise snow would have piled on top and collapsed the tarp. Even then we had to go out every now and then and brush away the snow. That’s why I wasn’t looking forward to a white Christmas.
I had met Carson somewhere between western France and Belgium. He was a replacement for one of our guys who was wounded by a German sniper. He was from my home state of Kentucky so we had that in common, and despite the admonition that you not get close to anybody in combat, we soon became fast friends. When they sent us into the forest in Belgium we both assumed we’d share a foxhole.
Turns out, that’s not all we shared.
It was bitter cold when we got there. Winters in Kentucky could be chilly but this was a nasty, knife-edged cold, and it got really extreme at night. We spent that first night trying to figure out how to stay warm. It would have been nice to build a fire inside our foxhole but we couldn’t make that work without some way to vent the smoke, and neither of us could figure out how to do that. Nobody else figured out how to do that either. So in the end we did what most of the guys ended up doing — wrapped ourselves around each other and piled on our blankets to share body heat.
That night, Dec. 15, was so goddamned cold I thought my ass might freeze to the ground. I felt sorry for the poor bastards who were forward — they had to remain awake on watch and the cold really got to them. At least we could stay reasonably warm inside our tarp-covered hole in the ground, with our bodies pressed against one another and sealed together by dirty Army blankets.
Carson was a blonde-haired guy, about 20, who looked about 5-foot 10 and weighed maybe 140 pounds. His hair was Army short, just like mine, and he had some seriously blue eyes. I figured he had a girl back home but when I asked, the answer was no, which surprised me. He was a good-looking man and it seemed unlikely a girl hadn’t snatched him up by now. I wondered if he was one of those queers and in the back of my mind I kind of hoped he was, because I was one of those queers. I’d figured that out about two years ago after I realized no girl was ever going to change my attraction to guys. Like a lot of guys my age I had fooled around with my friends when I was a teenager and I enjoyed it — a lot. There was something about a hairy ass and the feel of muscle beneath the flesh that did it for me — no soft skin and mushy breasts could ever hold a candle to a hard cock and an ass crack carpeted with pubic hair.
I began to wonder about Carson when I heard he wasn’t taken, but as we huddled together in our tarp-covered foxhole I really began to wonder. I expected it to be like the few other times I had come into close contact with other Army buddies. There’s a stiffness that exists between men — and I’m not talking about their dicks — that creates a protective shell. Their muscles tense up and forms an impenetrable barrier that keeps them from getting too close. But Carson wasn’t like that. He wanted to be close. He practically melted into me when I put my arm around him. He kept shifting his position to allow us to move even closer, and the more he did that the more excited I became, because he felt good, the way a warm bed feels good. You poke a toe out from under the covers and you feel how chilly it is out there opposed to your nice warm bed, and you never want to leave. And that’s what Carson was to me — a warm bed I never wanted to leave. I wrapped myself around him and he let me, and gradually the cold was forgotten as our combined body heat warmed us and the interior of foxhole.
That’s how it came to be between us, and that’s what led us to take the next step. I am so very thankful we did.
At one point he nestled his head on my shoulder and I couldn’t help it, I moved my lips and kissed him gently on his blonde head. He murmured a contented sigh and I moved my right hand down his back to his flank. I held it there just a moment, just to make sure he wouldn’t object, and I rubbed him along the contour of his hip. His legs parted slightly and it seemed the right thing to do to move my hand to the inside of his hip, where it was even warmer, and slowly nudge my way up his thigh until I was at the juncture of his leg and his crotch. I could feel his hardness there, and my hand quested about, trying to discern the shape and angle of his dick. I could feel it under the heavy fabric of his fatigues, a solid tube of flesh pointed to his right. And below that was the swelling of his scrotum and the jewels contained within. My heart was pounding as I continued to explore his straddle, and my hands traced a path to the button holding his britches tight. I found it and fumbled, and fumbled, and couldn’t get the damn thing undone until he reached down and unfastened it himself, our hands brushing against one another, then clasping when he was done, my finger rubbing the top of his hand. I could hear his breath accelerating and becoming deeper, and smell the K rations in his exhalations we had eaten only an hour before, and sudden, shocked Oh! as my hand went inside his pants and touched his belly just above his pubic thatch. There, he was warmer still, maybe even a little wet, and I rubbed my fingers together just to confirm that. Prostate fluid. He was getting ready to dump his load.