Rest and Relaxation Ch. 03

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As we rejoin the story, my ASPB, the Stoned Pony, was holed and a bit battered, awash with cum and pussy-juice, grimed with salt and gun-smoke, low on ammunition and altogether unfit for further operations. To top it off, my crewmate, Marty, and one of the two nurses we had invited along for an impromptu cruise were hopelessly in love.

* * *

I noticed them just as Kerri was thanking me for the “tour”. The three others of the crew who had gone ashore that morning were lined up along the boardwalk above the pier waiting for us. With them was Lt. Janvrin, the patrol officer commanding our two-boat detachment. Doubtless, all were wondering where the hell we’d been; were especially wondering about the lovely redhead gazing toward Marty who was busy coiling and setting lines, preparing to tie up.

I sighed; so much for slipping quietly into our berth, cleaning, repairing and re-arming the boat, chugging a few more beers and swapping war stories.

“Those guys up there,” I muttered to Kerri, nodding toward the boardwalk where the four men leaned on the railing, chatting and laughing among themselves, all the while eying the luscious Shauna. “That’s the rest of the crew, plus the CO of our section. I s’pose we’re ass-deep in some shit now.”

Kerri, the gorgeous Navy nurse who, with the equally attractive Shauna, had first accosted us a seeming lifetime ago, put her hand on my shoulder in a brief caress. “What do you think will happen?” she asked running her hand down my bare arm.

I shrugged, getting just a little worried. “Don’t know,” I replied. “But they can’t send me to Viet Nam, anyhow.”

There were, however, other things that could be done, including a general court martial for . . . what? Banging an officer? Unauthorized and inappropriate use of government property? Careless endangerment of lovely, naked women? Unapproved firing of weapons by said naked women in a restricted-fire zone? Failure to fill out and submit, in triplicate, the chits allowing a nude and delectable redhead to cum all over a United States Navy gun mount? The possibilities were endless.

I looked at Kerri. “I suppose I oughtta start calling you sir . . . I mean ma’am, ma’am.”

“You don’t ever have to call me ‘ma’am’, Jimmy. We were lovers, for Chrissake.” She offered a most enticing pout.

“Lovers?” I responded. “Uh, uh.” I pointed toward the couple on the bow. “Those are lovers; we were just a passionate, um, interlude.”

Kerri gave my shoulder another light caress, turned to stare out the open windscreen.

On the bow, Marty had finished tying our biffed up boat to the pier and rejoined his stunning Shauna in blissful oblivion. Each was plainly enraptured with the other, which wasn’t supposed to happen.

What was supposed to happen . . . what did happen, as far as I was concerned, was that we met a couple broads, took ’em out on the boat, had a few beers, got laid, shot the guns, got into and out of an ambush, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, and a good time was had by all.

For Marty and Shauna, though, something a bit beyond that had occurred. And I, the gun-totin’, sun-tanned, lettin’-my-hair-grow, can’t-get-a-beard-going-just-yet, bad-assed-son-of-a-bitch river rat, was so god-damned envious.

Apparently, however, it was time for all of us to pay the piper.

“Hey, Demarest, whatcha got there?” That would be Salty Morton, Motor Machinist’s Mate First Class and the Stoned Pony’s duly appointed boat captain, yelling down to Marty who smiled and raised his hand briefly in reply.

“Hey, guys,” he said pleasantly. He then addressed our frowning C.O. “Howdy, Lieutenant. Hope you’re well on this fine day.”

Lt. Janvrin ignored the cheery greeting. “Demarest, I sure as shit hope Axelsson’s driving that boat,” he stated, none too quietly. At Marty’s short nod toward the pilothouse, he raised his voice a few more decibels. “Axelsson! Shut down and get sincan escort bayan your sorry ass on deck. I want to know what the hell you people did to that poor, defenseless vessel.”

“On my way, sir,” I called out as I switched off the engines and looked at Kerry. “Well, darlin’, seems the shit’s about to hit the proverbial fan.”

“Wonder if it’ll help if I offer these as exhibit A at your court martial.” Kerri smiled as she lifted her bodacious breasts from their halter.

I just couldn’t help it; I was getting a hard-on again.

“Demarest, you stay where you are,” Lt. Janvrin yelled some more. “Young lady,” he continued, looking to Shauna. “Would you be military or civilian?”

“Sir, I’m Lieutenant j.g. Shauna O’Meara,” Shauna replied and rattled off her service number as if she was a prisoner of war instead of the hottest little Irish lass it had ever been my pleasure to encounter. “And whom,” she went on, “do I have the pleasure of addressing, sir?”

Lt. Janvrin seemed as smitten with Shauna as any young, red-blooded, male earthling would have to be. “I’m Lieutenant Robert Janvrin, ma’am, and if you don’t mind, would you please explain why you’re aboard that boat?”

Shauna looked at Marty, hugged him briefly, and called back up toward my C.O. “Sir, I’ve fallen in love with Gunner’s Mate Third Class Demarest. We’re currently in the process of determining exactly what the hell we’re gonna do about that.”

A sudden hush came over the considerable number of nurses, officers, sailors, Marines and Vietnamese civilians that had gathered above the dock, curious about all the yelling going on.

Kerri and I, knowing a fortuitous moment when we saw it, scrambled from the pilothouse onto the bow, where Kerri ran up to Shauna and Marty, wrapped her arms around both, and began screaming. “I knew it,” she cried. “God, Shauna, I’m so happy for you.” Suddenly both women were sobbing, clasped in a tight embrace.

After a moment, both Shauna and Kerri embraced Marty, who seemed about to start bawling himself. Meanwhile, I, from my spot near the pilothouse hatchway, and the crew, from their perch on the boardwalk above, simply stared and thought: You lucky bastard.

Marty and Shauna impetuously came together in a long, passionate kiss while Kerri, still crying, clung to both as a shipwrecked sailor clings to the last bit of flotsam.

Abruptly, Kerri, Shauna, and Marty rushed over to me, and I found myself engulfed in tears and hugs. Man, it was a mess . . . but a good mess.

Lt. Janvrin, in the spirit of the moment, shouted out, “Axelsson! Demarest! What in the fiddler’s fuck have you people been doing? And who’s that other woman?”

“Kind of a long story, sir,” I replied, my fickle wittiness having abruptly deserted me. “But the young lady is Lieutenant Kerri . . . um . . .”

“Cavalieri, Lieutenant.” Kerri, somewhat composed at last, had stepped to the Stoned Pony’s port side. “I’m Lieutenant Kerribeth Cavalieri. I’m a Navy nurse, stationed at the military hospital here, along with Lt. j.g. O’Meara.”

I could only think: Kerribeth? Her first name’s Kerribeth?

“Both you men . . . and ladies . . . stand fast.” Lt. Janvrin was hollering again. Though abruptly confronted with two of the most attractive creatures many of us had ever had the good fortune to encounter, he quickly regained his military bearings and began walking toward the gangway leading down to the docks.

The rest of the Stoned Pony’s crew followed closely behind the pissed-off patrol officer, chuckling and joking, each obviously scheming and plotting their own opportunity to enchant and impress our new friends. It has forever been my contention, as well, that Lt. Janvrin was, with his overbearing and misguided demeanor, also attempting to insinuate himself into the hearts of both nurses.

“Lieutenant,” a voice called out from the far end of the boardwalk.

She eryaman escort was tall and walked with the no-nonsense stride favored by captains of industry, and naval officers with the rank of commander and above.

She was also a platinum blond goddess of bountiful bosom, waspish waist, luscious legs, perfect posterior and visionary visage. She was uniformed in a creased and immaculate tropical white blouse mounting the triple-striped shoulder boards of a full commander. The oak-leaf insignia of the Navy Nurse Corps was embroidered in gold outboard of the stripes. All of this, meanwhile, was complemented by the stodgy blue skirt mandated by military convention.

She wore, too, black brogans that, though designed to be functional rather than fashionable, only enhanced this Amazon’s perfect calves and alluring ankles. Topping it all off, a blue cap of indeterminate shape was cocked jauntily over her forehead, flashing the silver insignia of her rank.

Somehow this blond bombshell . . . I simply can’t think of a better description . . . turned a conventionally sexless uniform into an ensemble that would shame a Hollywood starlet on Oscar night. This was a woman for whom wars were fought, worlds were conquered, and wet dreams were created.

Lt. Janvrin stopped dead, jaw agape.

The rest of the crew had also halted in awed and not altogether innocent comprehension of this vision of erotica.

Alas, to confound matters even further, the platinum Venus was accompanied by an older gentleman in Bermuda shorts, polo shirt, and flip-flops. All of us river rats knew Admiral Elmo Zumwalt, commander of U.S. naval forces in Viet Nam . . . COMNAVVN. Few, however, had ever seen any admiral, let alone this particular admiral, dressed in resort attire. As usual, a group of khaki- and camouflage-clad staff officers trailed this convoluted pairing of Aphrodite and authority, each trying, and failing miserably, to keep their government-owned eyes off the amazing ass swaying directly before them . . . and I don’t mean the admiral’s.

Needless to say, Admiral Zumwalt was far down the list of recognition factors overwhelming our stunned senses, until Kerri suddenly shouted out, “Attention on deck!” Naval training and tradition kicked in to bring all of us, except for the commander, her companion, and his entourage to a rigid attention.

A man held in some regard by the enlisted sailors in Viet Nam for his tolerance and evenhandedness in matters concerning justice and moral in the lower ranks, Admiral Zumwalt quickly shuffled his arms in a gesture of dismissal and called out, “As you were, people.”

He seemed tolerant of the fact that every man in the immediate vicinity had mentally unbuttoned the commander’s blouse, unleashed her ivory breasts from the blue-black, lace-encrusted half-bra, and had begun suckling and teething one or the other of those light brown, erect nipples, savoring their slightly rough tips, tasting the female musk, admiring the compact aureoles. All were slavering uncontrollably at the sight of those delicately veined orbs and eagerly anticipating the inviting nether region nestled beneath their throbbing members.

Or, at least I was.

I’m also pretty sure that Admiral Zumwalt was well aware that he was second-in-command of this particular action.

“Good afternoon, sirs . . . I mean ma’am . . . ah, and sir,” Lt. Janvrin stammered. He must have been no farther along than the rest of us, in his appreciation of the commander’s charms, for I was sure he had started to say “mammary”, but I might be wrong.

He had also, being the only man of the crew covered, that is, wearing the camouflage beret alleged to be the unofficial distinction of the Mobile Riverine Force crews, saluted his two superiors and held the salute in trembling apprehension of what he’d rather have been doing with that hand.

“I’m Commander Lundgren,” the etimesgut bayan escort gorgeous officer announced as she strode up to the overwhelmed lieutenant. “Lt. Cavalieri and Lt j.g. O’Meara are under my command. And for God’s sake, you were told to stand easy. Drop the salute, okay?

The red-faced lieutenant quickly lowered his arm. “Sorry ma’am.”

“Now what, exactly, is this commotion all about?”

“Well, ma’am, ah, I’m not quite sure what’s going down here, myself. Yet.”

At that moment, despite my apprehension that Marty and I might be in a bit more trouble than I had first thought, I loathed Lt. Janvrin for the simple reason that he stood some fifty feet closer than I was to yet another beautiful woman.

In any case, by now, I had slid the plain blue skirt down her sun-bronzed thighs and had begun kissing her bared belly, admiring the light, nearly imperceptible golden fuzz that climbed from the top of her black silk panties toward her deep and perfectly round navel. Doubtless, many other males in the vicinity had gotten much farther along than that, but I wanted to savor sheer perfection, to bask awhile in blatant sensuality.

I also recall wondering, in some remote nook or cranny of my overheated brain, how the hell anyone at the hospital could focus on the wounded, the sick, and the malingering with that enchantress a constant diversion. Then again, maybe she was a major factor in the recovery process.

I started when Kerri, a quite attractive and nubile young thing in her own right, suddenly shouted, “Commander Lundgren, this is all my fault.” She glanced toward Marty and Shauna, still entwined and paying far more attention to each other than to the imbroglio in which we all were currently enmeshed. “Though I’m not exactly sure if ‘fault’ is, like, the right word,” she continued. “Anyhow, ma’am, Lt. j.g. O’Meara and I were walking along the boardwalk up there, intending to hit the beach for a little R and R after . . . well, you know, ma’am . . . and I saw this interesting boat docked here,” she indicated the entire boat basin with an adorable little wave. “So I thought I’d ask that sailor . . .” another wave, to my mind considerably less adorable, toward me . . . “what type of boat it was.”

I admired and respected Kerri, thought her one of the most gorgeous women on the face of the planet, but I really wished she hadn’t implicated just me. After all, Marty and Shauna were in this, too . . . whether they yet realized it or not.

Kerri went on, “The sailor alleged that this boat was the, um, official Vung Tau Harbor tour boat . . .” At this, both the inconceivably beautiful commander and the estimable admiral chuckled, while Ollie Jackson, the Stoned Pony’s lone black crewman, hollered, “Oh, that’s good, y’all.”

I wanted to quietly slither into the bay and swim home. Reluctantly, I abandoned my imaginings regarding the charms sequestered beneath the commander’s lacy, blue/black underwear to focus on impending doom.

“Of course, ma’am, we didn’t really believe that,” Kerri went on doggedly, “but we . . . or at least I was genuinely curious about this boat; what its mission was. Also, ma’am, both these guys are kinda cute, so . . .”

I edged closer to the side of the boat as the entire crowd began laughing.

Even Marty and Shauna were smiling as they glanced at me, each other, Kerri, the blond temptress above, and back to each other. Clearly, they were inseparable.

“So, anyhow, ma’am,” Kerri continued, “we decided to go along with what was obviously a joke, and accepted what we interpreted as their invitation to come aboard.”

“And what went on after you boarded the vessel, Lieutenant?” The goddess spoke in dulcet tones, while my over-exerted brain careened between erotic imaginings of this muse’s boundless sexual charms, and significantly less enjoyable mental images of life in the LBJ . . . the Long Binh Jail, the daunting in-country military prison for enlisted personnel.

I also wondered, for some strange reason, if “McHale’s Navy” was still on TV back in the World.

* * *

Next: We discover true heroism . . . and I feel like a total ass.

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