"The summer of 1940 would have been a glorious time had someone mentioned to Mister Hitler that it was cricket season."

A tale of War, of love, and of friendship. (And a few Nazis)

The sound of the hut door hitting the frame roused Harry from his slumber. Raising himself up on his elbows, he focused his still groggy vision on the source of the sound.

Three men had entered the hut and were stood by the door on the far side of the room, apparently as surprised by the new arrival as he was.

Sitting up and swinging his legs off the bunk, Harry smiled. “Hello.” He offered, “Flight Lieutenant Dolton… Harry; I’m, new, you might say.”

The men seemed to relax and began to move about the room as they had originally intended. “Flight Lieutenant Arthur Hamley,” replied a wide set Irishman, “And these chaps are Pilot Officer Daniel Maddox, and Captain Mike Down.”

“Nice to meet you,” grinned Down in a deep Texan drawl, extending his free hand to Harry as he mopped his sodden brow. “Sorry buddy, we just got off work detail.” He grinned running his hand through his damp hair.”

“Oh not a problem.” Harry replied, liking the American airman immediately. “I just took one of these empty bunks; that’s alright isn’t it?” he asked cautiously, explaining himself. “Nobody was around…. Needed to rest…” he shrugged apologetically.

“Ah it’s no problem.” Hamley replied stripping out of his work shirt. “Those four left are all empty so it’s grand.”

“So what outfit are you with?” Maddox asked turning to join the conversation. “Navy man myself.”

“RAF,” replied Harry, “Forty Three Squadron.”

“Ah a fighter jock lads.” chuckled the American. “Watch your women and your whiskey.”

Blushing at the comment, Harry didn’t reply immediately. “So I take it none of you are fighter pilots?” he asked changing the subject.

Maddox shook his head, “Hamley over there was a Wellington pilot, I flew Swordfish and Yank here… Actually Mike, Why don’t you explain it yourself?” he added grinning.

Mike Down slumped down on the edge of his bunk and rubbed his hair a second time. “Well I’m not one to boast, but it was a pretty hairy one.”

“Aye we know you are but tell the story so,” laughed Hamley.

Throwing his shirt at the Irishman, the American stifled a laugh before continuing his tale. “It’s like this right… I was a commercial pilot before the war… I flew seaplanes transatlantic. So when the war started, I joined the Us Army Air force and got involved with flying over supplies and things that the ships couldn’t handle.”

“Get to the point Down.” Maddox replied drearily stripping down to his shorts and picking up a towel. “I want a shower before those cads in thirty two use up all the water again.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Down waved dismissively. “So anyway I get knocked a little off course right? This burns up a lot of Juice and my bird is running pretty low with a full belly… I want to have water under my hull pretty soon. So I get myself back on track, and I head for the shore, I spot this port and it’s got a seaplane terminal…I think what the heck,” he shrugged. “So down I go… Turns out, I overshot a little bit.” He grinned sheepishly. “It was Norway, and a German Naval base that I landed in. Brash as you like I get out of my cockpit, and light up on the jetty. Only to get planted face down and have guns pointed at me before I realise my mistake.” The man smiled ruefully holding his hands up. “Not sure who was more surprised to see who.”

Harry laughed warmly. “I ended up over France, got lost, so don’t feel so down about it.”

“Ah see?” Mike grinned looking at the other men. “I’m not the only one that can’t read a map.”

The three men finished stripping and made their way down a corridor to what Harry presumed to be the ablutions block of the huts. So far, his billet mates were alright he thought: At least none of them were with Photographic Reconnaissance…

The men returned, and Harry went with them as they made their way over to the mess hut for their evening meal. For some strange reason, Harry felt as if this was the start of his school days all over again: He was with a new group of people, new set of rules, a new social network he was arriving into and hurriedly had to find a place or risk being the loner again. The fact it was all men too felt awkwardly familiar: School for Harry Dolton, had been a torturous experience. In part, it was the pressure of living up expectations forged unchecked in an environment of raw testosterone that stylised the public school in the England of the late 1930s. Harry was competitive enough. He knew that. He had sometimes even enjoyed the activities he took part in, but the school itself… what they wanted him to be… the mould he had to fit: It somehow made him extremely uncomfortable.

The group filed into the mess hall and along a queue that passed in front of the kitchen hatch at the far end of the building. The atmosphere was warm, and filled with the sounds of raised voices and the clank cutlery.

As the group wound its way towards the front, Harry watched the room. It certainly was school all over again, he mused. The cliques, the behaviour… grown men had been reduced to little more than schoolboys once more.

“Alright lads.” A man called as he jumped the cue to stand with their group. “How was work?”

“Grand Andrew.” Hamley replied turning to the newcomer. “Jerry likes to keep us occupied.”

Hamley turned to Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder he nodded his head towards the newcomer. “This lad, is Andrew Matheson, one of our hut; he’s Navy like Maddox.”

“Pleased to meet you sir.” Matheson grinned extending a hand. “RAF eh?”

“That would be me,” admitted Harry sheepishly, shaking the man’s hand. “Harry Dolton.”

“Joined our motley bunch of sods here then eh?” Andrew Matheson smiled. I’m sure you’ll settle in fine… not that we hope to hang around long.” he grinned. “So Dolton, how are you settling in? Just get here today yes?”

Harry shrugged. “Still pretty awkward,” he admitted. “Feels like im back in the seventh form again… “I guess its still hitting me: Where I am...” Harry replied softly, unable to meet the eyes of the other man.

Matheson shrugged. “Well I guess it’s our lot for now.” He added kicking a floorboard, his hands deep in his pockets. “We do what we can, because we must I suppose.”

The line finally ended, and the group received a bowl of simple stew from the kitchen before retreating to one of the unoccupied wooden benches to eat.

Harry sat in silence, slowly eating his stew as the others talked and laughed around him. In a sea of people, he felt quite alone. It wasn’t that he was new… he understood that. It was more that he knew that no matter how welcome he was made to feel, that he would never be one of them.

“You’re the first new face in here since Norway you know.” Matheson offered pointing his spoon at Harry. “I think the Jerries are upto something.”

Harry paused, his own spoon half way to his mouth. “What do you mean?” he asked, knitting his brow.

“Well, surely there have been more airmen down since Operation Domino and such.” Andrew Matheson thought aloud. “Mike here was the last to join us… and he arrived shortly after the British evacuated. What you told Old Berkley has gone around the camp like wildfire… We’ve had nobody new since then, and it seems a little strange… considering there’s space. Why you? Why now?” He pushed, looking at Harry with a confused expression.

Harry shrugged. “I can’t answer that.” He admitted with a shrug. “We loose a lot of boys, perhaps other camps were full?”

“No…” Matheson shook his head. “Jerry’s up to something.” He muttered impaling a lump of potato in his bowl. “Almost as if they are keeping news out of camps by separating airmen from different campaigns…. It would make sense… but why you?”

“I don’t know.” Harry shrugged, feeling the weight of every eye at the table. “I don’t know.” Harry muttered sheepishly. “I don’t know.”

The next few days were a blur to Harry. The first fresh face in months became an instant celebrity in the camp. News of loved ones, friends and the war all became his most common topics of conversation with the other prisoners. Harry felt like a human wireless service.

Camp life was difficult to adjust to after the freedom of the outside world. The guards were fair but strict, and Harry tried hard to remain on their good side. Although he had begun to feel more comfortable with the men he shared his billet with, he wasn’t sure they qualified as friends by any stretch.

The days began to turn into weeks. Harry did as he was told, and robotically went with the flow of camp life. He rarely talked with the other prisoners unless he had to. The men in his hut always tried to get him talking, but rarely revived more than one word answers. Harry began to realise that he was slipping into a deep depression.

Harry padded automatically through to the ablutions block on the morning of his second month in the camp, Stretching, he rolled his head from side to side, working out a kink in his neck: The bunks were comfortable enough, but he never slept particularly well.
Hanging his Red Cross towel on a hook set into the wooden panelling wall, he began to strip out of his shorts and tee-shirt. The morning chill was more effective than coffee at waking him: Quickly he slipped into the shower room and turned on a faucet before waiting for the temperature to rise above that of the room.

Stepping under the warm water, Harry lent against the wall for a moment, allowing the water to rain down over him while he woke up: The early mornings were hard on him, but he always preferred to shower first, or last. His accident made him self conscious: In such a masculine environment, what would they think about the one with no balls? There was already the occasional jibe about being small, but this would be the end of his life if they found out. But naturally, fate would not allow that to be the peak of his embarrassment. In the months since the accident, he had barely shaved more than twice during the entire period. Not that he had ever been the sort to grow a beard in an afternoon, but the loss still made him feel that he ought to be embarrassed. Hair across his body was finer, and paler, his skin less toned and softer. Even his chest seemed mildly irritated and flabby.

While these things were bad, he admitted, the worst part was that while he feared what people would think of him… how they would treat him. The changes themselves did not upset him nearly as much as he believed they should. Just like he had felt when news of the accident had been broken to him. In truth, he had never felt so calm and at peace in his life.

The sound of the door opening roused Harry from his thoughts. Jumping at the sound, he hurriedly turned to face the wall and began scrubbing his body.

“Morning,” yawned a wild haired Andrew Matheson, as he stumbled naked into the shower area. Slinging his towel over the waist high wall, the pilot collected his wash kit and stepped into the shower area.

“Sleep alright?”

“Uh, yes thank you.” Harry replied nervously, trying to keep his back to the man.

“First time I’ve seen you in here.” Matheson replied conversationally as he turned on the faucet. “You’re an early riser.”

“I don’t like the queues.” Harry offered without turning.

“Not my place to say this…” Matheson said looking over at the other officer as he slowly soaped his hair, “but you seem very shy around everyone; is this the same deal?”

Harry gulped, “No, no, it’s nothing.”

“I don’t think so.” Matheson announced, “No: The way you behave… It was like I was in school. You make yourself invisible, and hope to pass unnoticed; you don’t feel like one of the guys, so you just try to exist. Believe it or not,” the Navy pilot admitted. “I was one of the small lads back in school, I got treated pretty badly.”

Harry turned his head to look at the Navy airman. Andrew Matheson was six foot three at least, and built like a prop half. Nothing Harry could see lent credence to the man’s story.

Matheson saw the look and laughed. “Yes, It’s pretty hard to believe t. look at me, I hit a bit of a late growth spurt during my late teens and it all vanished,” he said turning off the shower and reaching for his towel. “Don’t worry old chap, It will hit you soon enough. What are you? Nineteen, maybe Twenty? Give it a couple of years and you’ll be fighting off the women.” He chuckled warmly, patting Harry on the shoulder.

Jumping at the touch, Harry bowed his head, feeling a strange urge to tell the man exactly why he would never be what he reassured him with, “It won’t Andy.”

“Ah that’s not true.” Matheson replied as he rubbed his hair. Sure you will.”

Harry turned off the water and still facing the wall, sighed audibly. “I won’t Andy; I’m stuck like this for ever… No muscles, no hair, no deeper voice, no height… I can’t.

Matheson shook his head and wrapping the towel around his waist, sat on a slatted wooden bench while he unfolded his wash roll. “Every man does Harry… Some just take a while.”

“No.” Harry sighed. “I didn’t tell anyone this… I’m so embarrassed…” he trailed off, reaching for his towel and wrapping it about his waist before slipping on his tee-shirt and turning to face one of the few people in the camp he had grown close to. “Andy, I haven’t got any balls.”

Matheson was silent for a moment, surprise painted on his face. Harry slowly walked over and sat at the far end of the bench from his friend, and looked over at the man. “When I went down… There was an accident, my parachute harness… it… they had to operate, they couldn’t save them, I’ll never again have testosterone in my body.” He said quietly, shaking with silent tears.

Matheson put his wash roll down and moved over till he could put his arm around the shoulder of his comrade. “It’s alright Harry.” He dismissed softly. “Nobody’s going to think any less of you… Accidents happen; A lot of rubbish has happened in this war… it doesn’t make you less of a man.”

Harry sighed and shook his head. “That’s just it Andy…” he whispered. “I never really felt like one… I was waiting for the damn stuff to kick in and make me like my brothers, and classmates, hoping even; now…now I don’t know.”

Andrew Matheson was quiet for a moment before squeezing the young Pilot’s shoulder reassuringly. “This war has done some terrible things to people Harry. Families split, loved ones lost… hell, the generation growing up during this mess have the same problem you do… Give yourself time, you’ll find who you are, and you’ll be alright… Just please… Don’t hold this sort of thing back from me and the guys in the billet alright? We’re here for you, we’ll look out for you.”

Harry nodded weakly without looking up. “Thank you.” He replied weakly. “I’m sorry.”

“Ah don’t be.” Matheson shrugged, smiling softly. “I’d have felt bad telling me too.”

From the Author:
Not to sound like a sour fish here folks, but I’ve received numerous comments and PMs lately asking when ‘Angels High’ Will feature transition. While I do fully intend for this to happen, (You’ll forgive me for not giving the game away yet.) Is it impossible to identify with a non transsexual or cross dressing character? Is it impossible to enjoy a tale for its merit? Not content? I apologise if this seems rude. But as a writer, I reserve the judgement to outline my plot as I desire, and bring in subject matter when I feel it appropriate. I understand you come here for TG fiction, and This is a TG story... It just requires a little more preamble than 'bob turned into sally the end.' I ask you to bear with me and I promise it will be worth your while :)
Also expect more of your favourite storires that i've been neglecting... Due to a snow sports accident, im bedridden for a couple of weeks... *sigh* fate eh?
Alyssa