Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Gerry's Gift by Miles Naismith

   My father's funeral was short and to the point, just as he wanted. 
Captain Jean Pierre Devereux, U.S.N.  (Ret.), may have flown helicopters,
but he was a sailor in his soul.  We sang "Eternal Father, strong to save .
. ." and the Navy service for burial at sea was said, despite his interment
in the solid earth of the little Episcopal Church in St.  Mary's City, next
to my mother's grave.  And then, clad in my regulation black dress and
poker face, I accepted the sympathy of the assembled, taking what comfort I
could from the obvious respect shown for my father by men in the uniforms
of many services.

   Among them, Dondi stood out, wearing a prayer shawl, sidelocks, and
black hat.  He knew Dad in Viet Nam and Desert Storm, and they were hunting
buddies afterward.  Dondi got his nickname from a round, guileless face
said to resemble some cartoon strip character from before my time.  He
still looked that way when he took me aside afterwards and we sat in the
Rector's office to talk.

   "Quite a disguise," I said.  "Covert ops?  I'd have thought you would
have worn your uniform."

   "I haven't put on my uniform in several years.  Besides, my haircut is
no longer regulation.  Just going back to my roots," smiled Dondi.  "In
fact, speaking of going, I have to leave soon.  But I wanted you to know
what your father really did in the service.  I'm sure he never told you,
and I can't tell you all of it, but I'll tell you about the last time he
saved my life..."

   *****

   The expressionless CPO sat stiffly in the metal chair.  He faced a
lieutenant who, like the chief, showed his rank with flat black insignia
sewn onto his desert BDUs.  The drab plainness made the gold breast
device-anchor, eagle, trident and pistol-even more prominent than it
normally was, representing what it did.  Even among professional military
warriors, SEAL team members command respect.

   But not good staterooms.  Conversation was periodically interrupted by
the massive whang of the steam catapult almost directly above.  The carrier
was launching aircraft.  On January 14, 1991, flight ops were necessary
around the clock in the Persian Gulf.  In the early hours of the 16th,
Desert Storm would begin.

   The lieutenant spoke, "Solomon, you heard the briefing.  We have to try
to get that staff puke into that command trailer and keep him secure inside
for two hours.  I don't know what lard-assed Pentagon genius decided that a
SEAL platoon was the right unit to hold a static position inside an Iraqi
missile site, but we're stuck with it.  With inadequate time to rehearse at
that.  We're going to be hurt on this one, Sollie, and ordinarily I'd be
counting on you to hold things together if I buy it-but not this time."

   Solomon automatically reached for the envelope with the broken "eyes
only" seal in the lieutenant's outstretched hand before those last words
registered.

   "I'm still going?"

   "Yeah, but read those orders.  Helluva note."

   Solomon's eyes opened marginally wider as he scanned the page.  "They're
going to disavow this if it comes out, aren't they?  It'll be my ass while
the desk pilots cover theirs, won't it, Sir?"

   The lieutenant took the orders back and locked them in his safe. 
"'Fraid so, Sollie.  Will you do it?"

   "Why me, Lieutenant."

   "You're a sniper.  I guess they figure you've done it before.  At least
that's the way the bastards think.  Vital to national security, though, so
sayeth the man who signed those orders himself.  Will you do it?  I won't
order you to."

   "Yessir.  Don't much like it though.  Fuckin' A."

   "Carry the M-14 instead of the McMillan 88.  We may need the higher rate
of fire, and your main job won't be sniping this time."

   Solomon grinned, "'One shot, one kill,' don't need no high rate of fire,
Lieutenant."

   "Sure Sollie.  Just carry the fucking M-14.  And these three rounds go
in the top of the magazine for your sidearm.  Use them if you must carry
out those orders.  Be careful with them, though, they carry some ricin
derivative in the hollow point.  Hit your target anywhere and he's dead. 
Sign here.  They came from the Company and the Company wants them back if
not expended.  And accounted for if you use them."

   Solomon signed the receipt, repressing his feelings about the CIA's
obsession with unnecessary paraphernalia like poison bullets.  God knows I
don't need these to kill what I aim at, he thought.

   Solomon spoke, "We gonna outfit the staff puke?  And the civilian?"

   The lieutenant answered, "Weapons only.  And a personal communicator for
each.  For the rest, they brought their own gear.  Have McDonald get on
it."

   "Aye, aye, Sir."

   The lieutenant turned to put the receipt in his safe as the door closed.
His "Helluva note" was drowned out by the catapult's whang.

   The staff puke looked bulky next to the lean efficiency of the SEAL Team
members on the carrier's fantail, like a St.  Bernard among greyhounds. 
But he had chosen the silenced H&K MP-5 with confidence from among the
weapons offered by McDonald, and was calmly firing three round bursts into
floating trash bags in the wake with a familiarity unlikely in a staff
officer.

   Maybe this guy won't get us all killed right away, mused McDonald.  I
guess I'll carry the Remington myself, since he doesn't seem to need a
shotgun to hit his targets.  "Got a name, Commander?" asked McDonald.  He
obviously didn't buy the appellation "Smith" on the Commander's nametag. 
"What are we going to call you on this op, sir?"

   "My call sign is 'Smitty,' Mac.  Cut the commander-sir crap until we get
back, please.  Just Smitty." With that he secured the H&K and began slow
fire with a personal weapon that looked like a match grade .45.

   "How are your legs, Smitty?  We'll have close on to thirteen clicks form
the LZ to the objective, and less than four hours to do it in." This was no
idle question.  The team members had all seen the "water wings" breast
device of a Surface Warfare Officer on Smitty's uniform.  And he looked at
least forty, overage for a lieutenant commander, unless he was, God forbid,
a Reserve.  Blackshoe sailors, especially old ship drivers were not noted
for physical endurance, and Reserves were essentially civilians as far as
conditioning went.

   "I'll get there, Mac." The commander secured his weapons and started
forward.

   Solomon came out of the shadows from which he had watched the weapons
test.  MacDonald turned to him and said, "I saw a Pave Low arrive with a
couple of Snakes a few minutes ago.  Our ride, I presume.  Who's driving
this trip?"

   "We got lucky this time," said Solomon, "we've got Devereux in the right
seat of the H-53, and Evans in the left.  I don't know who's in the
Cobra's. Couple of Marines, though, so we can count on close support if we
need it."

   "I know Evans," said Jones from the side.  "He's good.  He got most of
us out of the water before we drowned at Grenada.  God, what a fuck up. 
But who's Devereux?"

   "That's Captain Devereux to you, Jonesie, and he's the guy we always
requested in Nam.  Best damn spec ops pilot I've ever seen.  I doubt I'd be
here now but for him."

   "Shit, just what we need: another geezer.  No offense, Sollie..."

   "Let me know any time you think you can take me, Jonesie," said Solomon
through a grin that didn't reach his eyes.  "Meanwhile, let's hit the rack.
Final brief at 1330 tomorrow, lift off at 1630." He turned and disappeared
through the hatch toward the platoon's berthing compartment.

   Hours later, the SEAL Platoon moved cautiously through the desert toward
its objective.  The MH-53J helicopter had gone feet dry just as the sun
dipped below the horizon, and had deposited them in a box canyon about
thirteen kilometers from the objective.

   The platoon flowed over the terrain in a rough box around the two men in
Bedouin robes who walked openly on the dry creek bed below.  Solomon looked
down and conceded that the staff puke and the elderly civilian they had
been saddled with were covering the distance at a steady pace, with no
signs of tiring.  The staff puke had no training in the irregular,
hyper-attentive patterns of movement and stillness that had let the rest of
the platoon move undetected among the enemy so many times in the past, so
it had been decided to let him move openly.  Fortunately, they had met no
one that the pair below would have to bluff.

   He was less concerned about the civilian.  He wore his attire with
obvious familiarity and looked like a towelhead, but the signs of Ranger
training and of Camp Peary had been unmistakable here in the field. 
Clearly a Company man who had been here before.

   Light flared in his night vision equipment as Jonesie, the point man,
exposed a small penlight to the pair to mark the next turn.  It was the
last turn before the objective.  Just 1.3 clicks and 27 minutes left to do
it in.  Looks like we'll make it with time to spare, thought Solomon.

   Twelve minutes ahead of schedule, the Platoon rendezvoused outside the
Iraqi missile site.  The staff puke and the civilian shed their robes to
reveal BDUs underneath, the staff puke matched the SEALs' mottled desert
tan, while the civilian wore the green of the Iraqi army.  The staff puke
donned night vision gear and a personal communicator like the SEALs.

   In silence each checked his weapons, making sure there was a round in
the chamber and that the magazine was properly seated.  After a last pull
at their canteens, the lieutenant gestured and the Platoon members moved
out on their assigned tasks, communicating by hand signal only.

   Precisely on time, the voice of the civilian called out quietly to the
nearest sentry in Arabic.  This was the most uncertain part of the plan. 
Reconnaissance had shown that there was a sergeant of the guard in the
barracks.  To avoid a fight, they needed to get him out of the barracks
without causing a commotion.  Solomon knew the sentries would believe the
civilian to be a deserter.  They all knew it was an open question whether
this would result in sympathy or an arrest that might awaken the camp. 
This time they were lucky.  These were no Republican Guards, and a hushed
conversation ensued.  The sergeant of the guard was quietly summoned and
the other two sentries came over to see what was going on.  With all three
sentries and the sergeant distracted by the civilian's performance, it was
routine for the Platoon to take them out silently.  The civilian would
stand by to answer any inquiries if anyone came to check on the sentries.

   With the area secured, Solomon tapped Smitty and motioned for him to
follow.  They moved toward the door of what appeared to be a trailer mostly
buried in the sand.  As they moved, three members of the Platoon
materialized in front of them and entered the trailer.  Two silenced double
taps, and then another, single, report indicated the end of the two
operators inside.  Their bodies had already been dragged against the wall
when Solomon and Smitty entered.  Two of the SEALs exited, leaving
MacDonald at the doorway.  Outside, Solomon knew the Platoon was setting up
a perimeter to give the staff puke the time to do whatever it was they had
brought him here to do.

   "The box, please."

   Solomon pulled from its case a small aluminum box he had been carrying.
The lieutenant carried its twin.  Carefully disarming the self-destruct
thermite charge, he opened it and handed it to the staff puke.  It was
filled with computer disks of various sizes.

   The staff puke sat down before a boxy keyboard and examined the racked
equipment before him.  After several minutes, he reached into the box and
pulled out a computer disk like none that Solomon had ever seen.  The thing
was huge-eight inches or more on a side.  Smitty put the disk into a drive
and began to type.  The drive startled Solomon when it revved up.  It was
loud.  Lines of letters and numbers appeared on the display in front of the
staff puke.

   For nearly two hours Smitty sat in front of the display, typing and
inserting disk after disk.  It seemed like an eternity to Solomon, who
could do nothing except watch and worry about discovery.  Finally, the
staff puke stood up, pushed a key, and retrieved the last disk he had put
in the drive.  It was 0147.  Thirteen minutes ahead of schedule.  He turned
to Solomon and said, "Let's go." Behind him, the display was going crazy.

   Simultaneously the door on the opposite side of the trailer, one the
Platoon had believed buried in the sand, opened.  Two Iraqi soldiers looked
blankly at their fallen comrades and then fumbled to pull sidearms from
holsters.  Two blasts from MacDonald's shot gun took them out, but the
noise was horribly loud in Solomon's ears as he dove toward the door frame.
For the first time he spoke into the tiny boom mike by his cheek.

   "Tango, this is Dondi.  X-ray Foxtrot." The code for the completion of
Smitty's task.  "There was a buried passage to another bunker on the east
side.  They know we're here.  Fade, out."

   "Roger, Dondi.  Platoon, fade, out."

   By the time the trio was out the door, it was clear the alarm had
sounded.  Shouts and noise surrounded Solomon as he pushed Smitty toward
the trail that led to the retrieval LZ, a kilometer to the south.

   Then all hell broke loose.  Two SEALs and Smitty went down in the
initial volley from the squad of Iraqi's running around a derelict truck.
The coordinated fire power of the Platoon took them down, but now the
Iraqis knew where to look.

   The Lieutenant moved the team into an empty, roofed revetment, open at
both ends and big enough to conceal two or three mobile Scud launchers.  It
was a tenuous position, but the closed side was toward the enemy and it
gave them a chance to regroup.

   It looked bad to Solomon.  SEALs never leave their wounded or dead
behind by choice, but the only way out of here looked like a scatter
followed by a sneak to the alternate LZ, some seventeen clicks away.  No
way they could take outthe wounded teammates that way.

   The lieutenant caught Solomon's eye, then looked at the staff puke. 
Solomon followed the gaze then nodded.  Jonesie was pressing a bloody
sterile pad against Smitty's right hip.  He wasn't going to make it out
either.

   Then the noise and confusion outside was suddenly overwhelmed by jet
engines and rotor wash.  Solomon's jaw dropped as the MH-53 came in under
the roof beam, right into the revetment.  Brakes squealed as it rolled and
skidded to a stop.

   Instantly hands loaded the wounded aboard.  Solomon handed the staff
puke aboard and then followed.  The lieutenant was up at the cockpit
already.  He started pulling a bloody body from the left seat, as he called
to Solomon to get the staff puke up there.

   Solomon helped the staff puke forward, supporting his right side.  The
staff puke grimaced in pain as they loaded him roughly into the co-pilot's
seat.  An entry hole cobwebbed the side window beyond.  Devereux' helmet
was cracked down the side.  Must have been a helluva blow to do that,
thought Solomon.

   The lieutenant spoke, "The Captain tells me he gets vertigo as soon as
he open his eyes.  He thinks Smitty can fly this bird once it's off the
ground, but its risky.  Smitty has no solo helicopter time.  What do you
think?"

   "Take the platoon to the alternate LZ, Lieutenant.  Let the Captain and
Smitty try to get the wounded out.  I'll stay with them."

   "God speed, Sollie." And the Lieutenant and the Platoon were gone.

   "Smitty, set the HSI to track 172 degrees," said Devereux, with eyes
clenched shut.  As soon as I get us up a few feet, the aircraft will turn
on its own to the HSI heading.  Then you move us out, just like the lessons
I gave you in the Robinson."

   As soon as the flight crewmen at the door called clear, Captain Devereux
started the big Pave Low forward, gunning the engines and pulling back on
the collective as soon as they were clear of the revetment.  When the helo
was five feet up, he took his hands and feet off the controls and yelled
"Your airplane!" His eyes clamped shut again.

   As the helicopter turned toward the south, the staff puke put the stick
forward and pulled the collective.  The helicopter accelerated into a
climbing turn.  Behind them, two Cobra gunships turned from the revetment
area to cover the SEAL Platoon's retreat.

   Suddenly the whole base seemed to explode.  It was 0200, and the first
air strike of the war, targeted against the antiaircraft capabilities of
the Iraqis, had arrived.  Ground fire ceased as the startled Iraqis took
cover.

   The staff puke and Capt.  Devereux decided to try for the carrier.  The
flight was surprisingly smooth and uneventful, after the Captain helped the
staff puke get the aircraft trimmed out.  The real problem was going to be
landing.

   "John," said the staff puke, "I can't use my right leg.  No right pedal.
No right brake.  Even if I get this thing close to the flight deck, I don't
see how we'll get it stopped.  And I sure as hell don't want to try to
hover."

   "Smitty, we'll dial in too much contra-rotation so you will need to hold
in left pedal to stay straight.  Then you can ease off if you need right
pedal.  The carrier will be going 30 knots, so your relative speed will
only be 20 knots if you make a 50 knot running landing.  The cyclic and the
pedals will be similar to fixed wing controls at that speed, letting you
concentrate more on the collective.  Get us down, put the collective full
down, stick forward, and I'll take care of the brakes."

   "You sure you just don't want to ditch?" asked Smitty.

   "What, and lose this valuable government property?  Shit no!  I signed
for this aircraft.  And besides, ditching would be even more dangerous for
the wounded.  Give it a shot, Smitty."

   *****

   "And he did," said Dondi to me.  "We ended up too close to the edge of
the flight deck for my taste, but we got down.  And our wounded were in the
sickbay in time to save them.  Thanks to your Dad."

   "That's what your Dad really did, Gerry.  Coming to get us at all was
against normal procedures, and risky as hell.  I doubt that anybody but
your Dad could have figured out where we were and flown that bird into the
revetment like that.  And it wasn't the first time.  He saved my butt in
Nam and Cambodia too.  He was a damn fine pilot and one hell of a brave
man. The best.  You should be proud of him."

   "Oh I am, Dondi," I said, "I always have been.  But thank you for
staying with him to help.  I'm sure he appreciated it."

   "Much as I'd like to take credit, Gerry, I didn't stay with your Dad to
help.  I'd have gone with the platoon if I could've.  But I had to stay. 
For a different reason."

   "What was that," I asked.

   Dondi turned and pointed out the window.  "My orders were to kill that
staff puke if it looked like the towelheads would get him alive.  And I
think you owe him some of the thanks for getting your father back." He was
pointing at Buddy.

   *****

   Buddy was a legacy from my mother.  When I was nine, my mother was
diagnosed with breast cancer.  Treatment options were more limited then-and
the radical mastectomies and chemotherapy produced only a short period of
remission.

   She seized that short reprieve with a passion.  She enveloped me with
her love as she prepared me for her death.  She drew on an inner strength
that I now realize was extraordinary, and shared that strength with my
father.  He needed it.  He was a Navy pilot, with combat tours in Viet Nam,
but he didn't know how to deal with Mom's illness.  It was something he
could do absolutely nothing about.  He looked and acted helpless most of
the time, and that made it harder on all of us.  But Mom bucked him up, and
eventually he became a rock to which I could cling after Mom was gone.

   After she died, I found that the thing that had consumed most of her
attention when I was at school or asleep was her journal.  It was more than
a collection of pages; it was a time capsule.  There was a traditional
bound book in which she had written messages to me, family histories and
anecdotes, and musings on many subjects, but the book rested in a large
jewelry case with many drawers.  Each of those drawers was labeled with a
date or event, and each contained a special communication from my Mom.  One
drawer contained envelopes, one for each of my birthdays except my
sixteenth and my twenty-first.  Those two rated separate drawers.  And
there were drawers or envelopes for my first date-one was labeled "The
bases" I finally figured that one out after second base-and various other
events.  She knew she couldn't be there in person, so she did the best she
could.  I'd get mad that I didn't have my mother, or feel sorry for myself,
but I treasured that journal, hearing her voice in my head and taking
strength again.

   One of the envelopes was labeled "Uncle M.," and the journal told me
that one was for a time when I was hurting, needing a confidante, and when
my Dad wouldn't do.  I reached that time when I was twelve.  The anti-war
movement was virulent, and I was ostracized at school for having a father
in the military.  My best friend casually parroted the things she heard at
home, referring to our soldiers as if they were murderers and baby-killers,
and began to distance herself from me.  My father was in Viet Nam at the
time, and I was living with my Aunt Connie and her husband.  They were
nice, but stuffy and overprotective.  I needed my Dad, but I also knew that
he would become so furious at those who were hurting me that he would not
focus on comforting me for a while-he was super a making me feel loved
except when someone threatened or hurt me.  So I opened the "Uncle M."
envelope.  I couldn't have been more surprised.

   The Uncle M.  that Mom referred to was Buddy!  Buddy was a friend of my
Mom and Dad from before I was born.  He was often hanging around the house,
and I liked him because he didn't talk down to me.  But he knew I didn't
like my name, then, anyway.  Mom and Dad had adopted that old Virginia
custom of giving their child a last name as a first name, and mine was
Giradeau.  Giradeau Devereux.  Even my nickname, Gerry, produced gender
confusion.  Of course, his solution was no clearer on that point...  he
called me Pip, short for pipsqueak.  He was in the Navy, like my father,
and would be gone to sea for months at a time, only to reappear as if he
had never left.  He was a familiar friend, but nothing that special to me.

   He was special to Mom, though.  Her letter explained that she sometimes
needed someone to talk to about things she couldn't discuss with my Dad. 
Calling him "Uncle Miles" was her code to him that what she wanted to talk
about was secret and emotionally important to her.  She trusted him
absolutely with Uncle Miles matters.  She told me that I could trust him
too.  Not only to keep my confidences, but also not to judge.  She warned
me that he didn't refrain from giving advice, and even mentioned a tendency
to lecture, but she assured me that he would be there for me no matter what
I ultimately decided to do.  She expressly told me that he wouldn't tell
Dad anything, short of preventing me from committing suicide.  It was quite
a long, and obviously loving story, with anecdotes and warmth radiating
from her words.  I was desperate enough to try.

   He was taken aback the first time I asked to speak to Uncle Miles.  Then
he laughed and said, "Why so formal, all of sudden?  Am I getting to old
for you, Pip?" When I told him Mom had said to ask for Uncle Miles, his
face changed.  He looked lost and sad for a moment.  I handed him Mom's
letter, and his eyes watered as he read it.  Then he visibly drew himself
together and said to me, "Uncle Miles it is, sweetheart.  Talk to me."

   Little did he know what he was getting himself into.  Among other
things, after comforting me in that initial crisis, he got to field my
questions about sex, and making out with boys, and crushes and going
steady-all things I knew my Dad didn't want to think about, much less talk
about to his little girl.  And it was Uncle Miles who took me to the clinic
to get the Pill when I told him I was ready, even though he thought I was
too young at fifteen.  He saw me through first love and first heartache. 
He helped me build the character to avoid the drug culture prevalent in
college in my day, without making me a prig or a prude.  And, to the best
of my knowledge, he never disclosed any Uncle Miles confidences to my Dad.
I believe I would have turned out okay without him, but it would have been
much harder.  I loved him dearly.

   *****

   I gazed out the window of the Church at Buddy, who was smiling and
gesturing as he talked to Aunt Connie, wondering who this familiar man
really was.  Buddy a commando?  Why had he never told me?  Why had Daddy
never told me?  Oh, I knew why they never told me, but it still rankled
that they hadn't.  When I turned back, Dondi was gone, silently and
completely, just like so many times before at our house.

   Naturally, I tried to thank Buddy for taking care of Dad, as well as for
all he had done for me.  When I told him what Dondi had said, he would have
none of it.

   "Me a SEAL?" He laughed heartily and patted the bulge of a more than
incipient belly.  "Sorry, sugar, but your friend must have mistaken me for
someone else.  I was just a drone at a desk in the Pentagon on CNO's staff.
The Navy has the records to prove it.  Besides, what would I be doing in
Iraq?  No ships to drive in the desert.  You've seen my uniform.  Not a
combat ribbon on it.  But I wouldn't talk about it if I were you.  If it
were true, and it does sound like something your father would have done,
Mr. Solomon could get in deep trouble for revealing classified information.
Just be proud of your father and keep it to yourself." Then he walked away,
with a limp that favored his right hip.  Arthritis, he said.

   I let it go at the time, but I knew Dondi well enough to know he was
telling the truth.  And I think I know what Buddy was doing there.  I
remember Dad commenting on the extraordinarily low losses that first night.
The Apache helicopters and the Wild Weasel fighters got the credit for
knocking out Iraqi defenses in advance of the strike, but their losses were
amazingly low as well.

   Buddy did classified work with computers in his staff jobs, and he was
old enough to remember how to use the computers that used eight inch
diskettes.  I think he was chosen because the Iraqi command and
communications computers were too old for any of the young hotshots to have
learned, and there was no time to teach them.  So I think the Service
picked a forty-odd year old staff puke to insert the virus or worm or
whatever to spread through the forward Iraqi antiaircraft control network.

   I think a lot of families have something to thank Buddy for, but whether
that is true or not, I knew I needed to thank him for all that he had done
for me, and for Dad.  And I knew how I wanted to thank him.  Just like my
mother had.

   I had been shocked at fourteen when I had read the entry in Mom's
journal.  Buddy had received orders to a ship on Yankee Station off Viet
Nam, and Mom had given him a warrior's send off.  In her bed.  And Dad had
helped.  I couldn't believe it at the time.  My parents, classic examples
of conventionality during my youth, letting another man borrow the marital
bed?  How could they, if they loved each other?  Dad willingly letting
himself be cuckolded?  Where was his pride?  To that point, I had never
even thought of my parents as having sex with each other, despite the
obvious fact of my existence.  This revelation was perplexing, to say the
least.  It was the one thing I never felt comfortable about asking Buddy.

   Later, as an adult, I began to understand.  Buddy had been a very
important part of Mom's life, just as he was in mine.  I now knew how rare
it was to have such a confidante, and how deep the feelings I developed had
become.  Mom's journal made it clear that she felt just as deeply.  Enough
to entrust me to him when she knew that I would need someone I could trust
completely.  I understood why she wanted to thank him in the most intimate
and complete way she could.

   Nor was I surprised that Buddy had accepted her offer.  When he was
lecturing me-yeah, Mom was right about that-it became clear that he was
essentially amoral.  Not immoral, mind you, but rather, amoral, as in
without morals.  He told me that the really smart members of a society
seldom adopted its rules without thought and analysis.  He professed to be
governed only by ethics, and pushed me to develop my own ethical code.  I
understood what he was getting at, but as a teenager, I didn't see much
difference between his "ethical rules" and conventional morality.  I will
say that must have influenced me some, though, for it took two years before
the birth control pills were put to the test.  Anyway, if he could
encompass the act in his ethics, no morality would stand in his way.

   No, it was Daddy I was most surprised by.  Mom's journal made it clear
that Daddy had personally told Buddy that he was welcome-and even then, he
had to struggle to get him to accept Mom's gift.  Buddy may not have had
morals about sex, but as I said, he was damned strait-laced about ethics.
My Dad had to argue him into bed with Mom.  Mom was two months pregnant
with me, so Buddy's argument about the danger of pregnancy was moot.  And a
recent predeployment physical proved Buddy disease free.  Finally Dad
convinced Buddy that they were serious.  So, when Dad conveniently got TAD
orders the next day to spend four days at Camp Lejeune, Mom and Buddy spent
those days together.

   Mom even wrote that Daddy got a kick out of the whole thing once he
understood that there was no threat to their relationship and that her love
for Buddy would never replace her love for him.  In fact, Mom mentioned
that Buddy stayed a week, which would have included three days after Dad
returned.  And Buddy did sleep over many nights when I was young.  As I
grew in experience, I realized that my parents had depths I never saw at
the time.  But it sure didn't fit the strict Dad I knew.

   Well, now it was my turn.  Two years after Dad died, I accepted a
proposal of marriage from a wonderful man named Michael.  I intended to
offer him my fidelity in marriage, so it looked like it would be soon or
never with Buddy.  The first hurdle-getting Michael to agree-looked
daunting, for I did not want to deceive him.

   That first hurdle actually proved absurdly easy.  Ever so hesitantly,
ever so fearful, I broached the subject at dinner shortly after I made up
my mind.  I was floored when my fiancé readily, almost casually, agreed to
let me have a fling with Buddy.  It was so easy that I was a little hurt by
the lack of apparent jealousy.  Michael explained, though, "You've made me
trust you.  It's the foundation of our entire relationship.  I trust you to
avoid things that will harm what we have between us.  If this will not harm
us, and if it's something you need to do, do it.  I'll even help, if
necessary." After a bunch of Are-you-sure's, he finally said, "I understand
just how your father felt, and I approve.  In fact, it is kind of exciting
in a way.  Stand up and let me show you."

   Then he pulled my chair back, bent me over the dining table, and fucked
me.  It was like a bad movie.  My skirt went up and then he literally
ripped my panties off.  My normally sensitive, oh-so-considerate lover was
nowhere to be seen.  We usually make love, but this was fucking, pure and
simple.  I winced when he put the head of his erection in place and thrust
hard, but it was reflex only.  It didn't hurt.  To my surprise, I was
lubricated and ready.  I never come without foreplay, except that I did,
and quickly.  He came quickly too.  And several times more that night.  And
several nights thereafter.  I decided to believe him that it wouldn't hurt
him for me to thank Buddy Mom's way.  This also provided food for thought
about what our relationship would be in wedlock, but I put those thoughts
aside at the time.

   The next hurdle seemed even more formidable.  Jackie.  Not only was she
my friend, but I knew my plans had absolutely no chance of success without
her active approval and help.  It was true, as I said earlier, that Buddy
had no sexual morals, but with his strait-laced ethics, he might as well
have been a Puritan in his outward behavior.  He had explained it to me
when I was just embarking on my sexual explorations.  That explanation
would be my path through his defenses.

   "Pip, I don't believe God sent word from above that this act or that
position offends the sensibilities of Heaven, but most sexual acts affect
other people as well as yourself.  So I have made my own set of standards
for myself of right and wrong, based on my own concepts of honor and
courtesy.  If you don't want to inflict unnecessary pain, or end up
receiving it yourself, you should too."

   When he explained his standards to me, I exclaimed, "But your rules
sound almost exactly like what they teach us in church!  Fidelity, loyalty,
trust, how are your rules different?"

   "The difference, Pip, is that my fidelity, for example, will be to a
person, not to an abstract.  In church, sex with someone other than your
spouse is a sin, flat out, no matter what.  If I get married and my wife
promises me fidelity, it would not violate my rules for her to have sex
with someone else if I approve.  The way I see it, when she gives me the
promise, it is mine.  I can give it back, if I choose, or maybe just loan
it to her temporarily.  On the other hand, it would violate my rules for me
to cheat.  I hope my personal honor will never let that happen.  That's the
difference that I see."

   I saw the difference even back then, and it helped to reconcile my
feelings about Mom and Buddy.  And I had set my own standards.  And it
wouldn't be cheating if Jackie and Michael approved.

   But how do you approach a friend and say, "I want to take your husband
to bed and screw his brains out." A friend in a marriage that has never
shown an outward sign of anything except monogamy.  I didn't know.  So I
decided to ease up to it.

   I arranged to have lunch with Jackie in a quiet little place that served
great Sangria with the food.  I made sure her glass was kept full as I
first told her the story Dondi had told me.

   "I kind of thought it might be something like that," she mused
thoughtfully.  "Miles never talked about his work.  I always thought it
strange that he would return from a trip to do 'field tweaking of some
local brasshat's command network' with bandages from chest to toe.  Somehow
the 'training accident' explanation never rang true."

   "You've known that Miles has been my confidante all these years, Jackie,
but did you know he filled the same need for my Mom?"

   "Yes, Gerry.  Miles told me about the relationships as soon as we got
serious.  He wanted to make sure I knew that he could not reveal those
confidences even to me, even after we married.  I was quite jealous at
first, to have to share him with you, and with a ghost, but I finally
realized he had enough love for all of us.  After that I was just envious
that you had had such a friend growing up.  I didn't."

   "Jackie, Miles brought my father back to me there in the Gulf, and he
filled a major void in my life when I needed someone most.  Next to my
father and my mother, he is most responsible for who I am today.  I owe him
more than words can say.  I don't know how to say what I want to say now,
so I want you to read something in my Mother's journal before I say
anything else." I handed her the journal, opened and marked, thinking
"Girl, you are incoherent."

   She looked remarkably calm as she read that entry, slowly sipping on her
drink as she turned the pages.  When she had finished, she looked up at me
appraisingly.  She didn't speak.

   Finally I was desperate.  I pleaded, "Jackie, I need to do this if you
will let me.  I won't go behind your back, but can you share this once? 
Besides, Miles won't do it unless you say he can, no matter what I want. 
Oh, God...  I know this is crazy, but I had to try.  Please don't hate me,
I don't want to break you up or anything..."

   "Okay."

   I almost didn't hear her reply through the babbling that came from my
mouth of its own volition.  Suddenly, though my eyes had opened wide and my
mouth had made a big round O, all of their own volition as well.

   "Okay," she repeated.

   "Oh, God, Jackie, are you sure?  I mean I really want this, but I
couldn't stand it if it would turn you against me."

   "I said, 'Okay.' But you can only borrow him for a night.  The rest of
the time he's my husband, like always.  In fact, you may have just solved
my problem of what to give him for his birthday this year.  It's the double
nickel, and I wanted it to be special, something really big, but this will
be better than Callaway irons." She was smiling that glorious smile as she
spoke, the one that lights up the room.  I was so relieved I could have
slid off the chair into a puddle on the floor at the slightest push.  I
hadn't realized how many muscles I could tense up at once until they
relaxed.

   Jackie became my co-conspirator.  Between us we developed a plan that
would make it impossible for Miles to refuse me.  It was set for the night
before his birthday.

   Jackie had gone to Miles' boss and asked for his help.  Hinting that she
was cooking up some special erotic evening with her husband for his
birthday, she got Miles' boss to schedule a dinner meeting that Miles was
required to attend.  I went to Miles' house, where Jackie and I set the
stage.  By 11:30 p.m., I was naked in their bed, and Jackie was at
Michael's house to wait with him.

   I didn't have to wait long before I heard Miles come in.  I heard him
rip open the envelope that had been taped to the outside of the front door,
and then I heard his footsteps across the hard floor, then muffled by the
rug in the den.

   Shortly thereafter, I heard Jackie's voice coming from the TV.  As
instructed, he was watching the videotape Jackie and I had recorded earlier
that evening.  She had done a strip tease while she made the tape, and I
visualized what I had seen in the camcorder's little display as I listened
to her talk.

   "Miles, honey, tonight you will have a treat like never before, provided
you follow instructions.  Screw up and you get nothing...  at least tonight
you get nothing...  but do it right and you won't regret it."

   Her voice took on a more commanding tone, "First, strip.  Right here in
the Den.  Just like I am doing now.  I want you naked, not a stitch, and I
want you hard.  There's some lubricant on the coffee table.  Put some on
your hands and stroke it on.  Keep going until you are fully erect!  But
don't you dare come."

   She was sounding coy, flirting now.  I knew she was naked on the tape,
except for her panties.  She was toying with them, making a production of
taking them off as she spoke, "Just maintenance strokes now, just keep it
up.  In fact, keep it up until midnight.  For your birthday, you are
getting a very special present.  You'll be taking a special virginity. 
Your virgin sacrifice will be on our bed, on the edge, poised just like
this at midnight." By now she had taken off the panties, and was on her
elbows and knees on the floor, with her head down.

   "On the bed, I think you will find it a convenient height for you to
stand behind.  But you will have to feel for it, because the room will be
dark, the hall light will be off, and you will be wearing my black silk
scarf as a blindfold.  You can wait until just outside the bedroom door to
put it on, but you'd better be wearing it when you come in.  I really want
you to have this gift, but the embarrassment would be too great, presenting
one's butt, as it were, if you could see.  Put it in the regular place
first for a couple of strokes, and then do it for real.  Straight in, but
slowly.  Don't dawdle or second thoughts might win out.  On the other hand,
do it well, and maybe it will happen again.  Now I'll be getting myself in
the mood for the rest of this tape.  I don't know exactly when you'll get
home, so I'll give you something to watch until midnight."

   Too bad for him.  It was almost midnight.  He would only get to see the
beginning of Jackie's session of self-pleasuring.  He'd be in the bedroom
before she came the first time.  I put some lubricant where it was needed
while waiting out the last long minutes.  I was wet and ready.  Had been
for hours, it seemed.

   Then suddenly he was there.  The sound of the door opening, the soft
footfalls on the rug.  I flinched, then shivered as his hands found my
rear. I felt him move up, his knees between my feet.  He pushed forward
-too low.  We both corrected-too high.  I stayed put.  Just right.  He felt
wonderful as his erection spread my labia.  I was so excited, so wet, that
he slid right in, full length.  But only two strokes, then he jerked
himself out.  I wondered if he had realized, if he were rejecting me?  But
I felt him come back, aiming higher this time.  I hoped I could take him
without crying out.  I assumed it would hurt, but I wanted to give him
something special.

   To my surprise, the pain was small and fleeting.  Good ol'Astroglide, or
whatever the guy in the sex shop had called it.  Astroglide-a fitting name
in this case, anyway.

   I must admit, as turned on as I was by the situation-and a little
self-stimulation, I suppose-I still couldn't work up much excitement from
this form of intercourse.  Oh, mentally it was nasty, wicked, but
physically it just made me feel like I needed to go.

   Buddy, however, obviously liked it.  He grunted and groaned through a
few strokes, and then came in my bottom in a few quick, jerky strokes.  I
was happy.  I had given him something I had never given another, and he
liked it.  I liked that a lot.

   He pulled out, and then pushed me over on my back.  He hopped on the bed
beside me, and turned my face for a kiss.  It was in the middle of the kiss
that he found out.  When his hand wandered down, he found my A-cup breasts
instead of his wife's Cs.

   "What the hell?" he sputtered, as he jumped from the bed.  The blindfold
landed on me at the same time the bedside light went on.

   Jackie and I had anticipated this moment.  I had already pushed the play
button on the VCR controller I had hidden under the pillow in the bedroom.

   "Don't start, Buddy.  Watch Jackie." I scowled at him as best I could.

   "Get yourself covered up!  I'll have something to say to you in a
minute."

   "Uh, oh," I thought, "He seems madder than I thought..."

   From the TV in the bedroom came Jackie's voice, hard and cold, "Don't
you screw this up, Miles." He whipped around, starting to sputter again. 
Jackie continued, "If you hurt Gerry by refusing her gift like a selfish
asshole, I will be really pissed.  You know she couldn't be there without
my help, so you also know I'm loaning you your promise of fidelity back. 
But only for Gerry, and only until tomorrow noon.  I expect you to be
gracious and solicitous of her, showing enthusiasm, not grudging
acceptance, for what she wants to give you.  Oh, I know under all that talk
about ethics versus morals that you truly are a Puritan at heart, but get
over it.  If I don't find Gerry to be one happy and well fucked young lady
on Sunday, it'll be a long time before you'll get any from me, bozo."

   "Now, knowing you," she said, "your conscience won't let your mind focus
on the fact that you have a young, tight woman who wants to make love to
you naked in your bed.  You will convince yourself that this is somehow
like incest, and instead of relishing the delicious naughtiness that it is
only like incest, you will have some difficulty getting it up again.  So I
offer you a chance to stiffen your resolve, so to speak, by giving you
something else to think about.  I was going to give you Gerry as a birthday
present, but maybe you can still have those Callaway irons if you play your
cards right.  I am at Michael's right now, horny as the devil thinking
about you and Gerry in our bed.  Maybe we can trade off on the fidelity
vows and call it even.  You get the clubs and you get to think about what
I'll be doing in Michael's bed while Gerry spreads her legs for you... 
Call me."

   I had already pushed the speed dial on my cell phone, and handed it to
him as he turned back to me.  As he put the phone to his ear, I washed his
penis with the warm, wet washrag I had stowed in a plastic sandwich bag
under the pillow.  By the time the "Are you sure?"s had changed to "You
have my permission to fuck his ass off," I had him in my mouth, feeling him
harden.

   And it was like incest.  All the more nasty and exciting for it. 
Especially the next morning, when, to shut up his "apologies," I plopped my
pussy on his face as I sucked his erection into my mouth, then turned and
rode him until he came deep inside me.

   He did pretty well for an old man.  Seven times altogether-mostly the
usual way, with the once in the ass and a couple of oral episodes for
variety.  I felt especially naughty hugging Michael with semen leaking out
of me from the last time, in the car in the driveway of Michael's house. 
Based on her shit-eating grin, I'd bet that Jackie was leaking too as she
got in the car with Buddy.

   Michael told me he was hors de combat, but when I told him he'd be
sliding into fresh sloppy seconds, his erection was quick and firm.  I came
too, thinking about Jackie screwing Michael in that very bed not so long
before.

   Michael and I married, and Jackie and Buddy were in the wedding.  I have
honored my vow of fidelity to Michael, and I expect him to honor his.  For
at least as long as I don't loan it back to him, I guess.  You never know
when you'll need a last minute birthday present, after all.

   ??

   ??

   ??

   ??