PRISONERS OF LOVE Dorothy looked up as the door creaked open, her fingers hovering above the heavy, black typewriter, a look of mild irritation on her face. Colonel John McGinty registered the look and his mouth twitched in the typical military smile she had grown to despise. Why did soldiers act as if emotions were an enemy to be killed, rather than something to embrace? He stepped into the tiny office and Dorothy took in the tall German in the doorway. She was used to the sight of Germans in camp, they were all prisoners and whilst at first she had been afraid of their morose stares, she had grown used to the presence of enemy combatants now. Searchlights and armed guards controlled the perimeter, every move carefully monitored.
“This is Carl,” he waved the prisoner inside, “he speaks very good English, educated at Oxford, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied in a soft English accent that had a slight European twang, “before the war I studied linguistics and literature.”
“Oh,” she put her hand to her throat, “so you speak and read English?”
“Perfectly,” he smiled through perfect teeth. Dorothy’s heart skipped a beat. The Germans tended to be good looking, tall, blonde and with faces that could have been cut from stone, but this man was an Adonis if such a creature existed. His blue eyes softened as he stared at her, falling to her sumptuous breasts and then back to her brown eyes, she felt a shiver go through her body as he smiled.
“Perfect,” he grinned, “the Colonel was saying you needed a secretary.”
“Yes, I, uh,” she glanced at the pile of papers, “yes, we uh do,” she glanced at the Colonel who merely smiled and clicked his heels.
“I’ll be in the outer office,” he checked his watch, “I’ll see you at 1700 hours then, Carl?”
“Yes sir,” he saluted crisply.
The door closed and Dorothy fluffed out her hair, where to begin?
“Are there any files I am not supposed to touch?” Carl tapped the pile of papers beside her.
Dorothy smiled nervously and shook her head.
“They are kept in a safe in the Colonel’s office,” she replied, “I couldn’t let you in there,” she cast an eye at the papers, “well, I suppose we shall have to get you started then.”
“Thank you,” he sat opposite her and leaned on the desk, “this will be my typewriter?”
“Yes,” she looked at the second typewriter, “it will be your typewriter,” she leaned back and studied him for a moment. The white collarless shirt and braces hid a muscular torso and she smiled at the thought of meeting him after the war. He seemed bemused by her studied reflection and leaned on his palm and returned her stare.
“Something wrong?”
“Oxford?”
“Yes, Oxford,” he replied, “have you ever been there?”
“Once,” she smoothed out her tie, “I was on my way to Cardiff, and we stopped off at the station on the way through.”
“I remember the station well,” his eyes flickered the picture of the king behind her, “I had just finished my degree and had received the letter from Berlin telling me I was to enlist.”
He smiled sadly.
“This war has made fools of us all. Three years ago I drove through the English countryside with my girlfriend, and now I am dropping bombs on her towns. War is a mockery of all that is good and kind, it is the final insult mankind can throw at God.”
Dorothy glanced down and adjusted her tie.
“If it means anything to you, I do not hate the Germans. I used to write to a German girl before the war, we were pen pals, she lived in Essen.”
“I know the town well, I was born not far from there, in a town called Dortmund.”
“Our people are dropping a lot of bombs there,” she bit her lip and glanced out the window.
“Come,” he clapped his hands and she jumped, “enough philosophizing or we will end this war and then what will our leaders do with their time? Write books on how they won the war?”
Dorothy giggled and pulling off her glasses, wiped her eyes.
“I dare say, it would make for interesting reading.”
He grinned.
“No doubt.” His nimble fingers danced over the keyboard not long after and Dorothy found herself beginning to fantasize over him. What would it be like to have those fingers inside her? He certainly seemed to have a way with his fingers she mused a couple of hours later, he was at home with the typewriter and his English was indeed flawless, almost embarrassingly so, for he managed to catch her out on a few missed commas. It had caused her to smile and every time she smiled, his eyes softened a little more until eventually he leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head.
“So, you are in the military?”
“In a manner of speaking,” she replied, “I am a clerk for the military police, I did my basic training but it was very basic. I’ve worked in three camps but moved up here to be closer to my mother, she’s feeling poorly now that the rationing is getting worse.”
“I have not seen my mother for two years,” he replied sadly, “I sent her into the east, but now that the war on the Eastern Front has turned against us I am afraid for her.”
“Isn’t there a way you can get her back?”
“Yes,” he smiled and leaned forward, “you could help me escape, and then find me a submarine captain who would accept a bribe to take me to Germany,” he picked up one of her cigarettes. “I don’t suppose you could arrange that?”
Dorothy’s hand flew to her throat. “I umm,” she looked away.
Carl burst out laughing. “I was joking,” he lit a cigarette, “if I wanted to escape I could have done so by now, but what would I be escaping to? I would soon be dodging Allied bombs and probably dropping bombs on England again, instead of which I am sitting talking to a pretty English girl and smoking English tobacco.”
“So you don’t mind being a prisoner?” Dorothy’s eyes widened appreciably.
“Everybody minds,” he shrugged, “but you get used to the idea and the English are not so bad, I am in good with the commander here.”
A knock sounded at the door and she straightened up as it opened.
“Just popping out for an hour or so, will you be all right?”
“Fine,” she replied, “we’re really getting some work done here.”
“Jolly good,” McGinty seemed pleased as he looked at Carl, “I knew you had promise, old chap, well, there’s a guard out the front. Do you want me to send him in?”
“I think not,” she lit a cigarette, “he’d only fall asleep, you know how they are.”
“Yes,” McGinty’s eyes narrowed, “well, must dash, I’ll see you two later.”
The door closed and a moment later they heard the outer door slam shut. Dorothy exhaled suddenly and closed her eyes.
They were alone.
“We are alone,” Carl butted the cigarette out.
Dorothy set the cigarette in the heavy pewter ashtray and started typing absently. It was a requisition request to the quartermaster, one of three she had done that morning. True to tradition, the British army demanded everything be documented, and in triplicate. She was vaguely aware that Carl was looking at her and she glanced up momentarily.
