Wounded War Correspondent

During the final days of WWII, an American war correspondent is wounded in the Philippines. He learns that local Filipinas provide wonderful sexual healing!

Part One

This is a memoir being written in the summer of 1970. I, Richard Mulgrew, am now 48 years old, a middle-aged man. Back in 1945, I was a 23-year-old war correspondent stationed in the Philippines after that country was retaken from the Japanese by the Americans. General MacArthur had promised the people of the Philippines that he’d return. He kept his word. Accordingly, the local population loved their American liberators.

I had wanted to serve my country during the war in a traditional way, but I was partially deaf in my left ear due to a childhood illness, and I also had a slight equilibrium disorder that barely affected me. However, those two issues were enough for my local draft board to classify me as 4F and therefore unfit for service in 1942 when I was 20. Instead of fighting, I went to college, got into journalism, and had an urge and a writer’s curiosity to be close to the battlelines. I applied to be assigned to cover the fighting, wherever that might happen to take me. I was accepted; I became an official correspondent reporting on activities in the Philippines. Thus, I was given a uniform to wear, but I was a non-combatant, not a soldier.

By the time I arrived in the Philippines, the outcome of the fighting was virtually decided. The Japanese were clearly beaten and had mostly retreated back to their home islands while the getting was good. They had been expelled from all of the major cities. Only pockets of fanatics resisted in isolated places. Unfortunately for me, I encountered a group of them.

In June 1945 I was becoming bored writing fluff pieces. I seemed to be in a rut. I penned many pieces about American soldiers missing their loved ones back home. I also parroting official communiques that said how well things were going in the American efforts to mop up the small pockets of Japanese soldiers who insisted on fighting to the death than enduring the shame of surrender. I wanted a chance to see some military action up close.

I got permission to accompany a group of about two dozen Marines onto a small island that was reputed to be “99 percent secured” and thus safe for someone like me to be walking around. I found out that was far from being true when I and my Marine buddies came under fire from enemy mortars shortly after we landed on the beach. I saw one Marine who was disemboweled by shrapnel. Another one had his right foot blown off. All of a sudden, I was knocked to the ground with searing pain in both my legs. I later found out I had eight separate shrapnel wound that were considered relatively minor. Still, I required the quick attention of a medic or I would have bled to death.

When the remaining garrison of about 10 Japanese soldiers were all killed or committed suicide, I was transported back to our base where I underwent triage. I was quickly transported elsewhere for surgery. Then I was sent to a very small military hospital on a neighboring island to recuperate. I now had a great scoop: I could stay active as a writer by reporting on my own recovery from a battle wound!

The military surgeons did an excellent job in finding and deftly removing all the shrapnel bits lodged in my legs, most of which were less than half an inch long. There was plenty of muscle damage, though, so it would be a long time before I could walk without assistance. This left me a lot of time to lie in bed, write my stories in longhand, and watch the world go by.

There are advantages of being in a small hospital when you recuperate from a battle wound in a campaign that has already been decided: First and foremost, you get a lot of attention. The nurses absolutely dote on you. You also tend to get better food than the average G.I. does. There are worse ways to sit out a war.

I noticed there was a lot of civilian traffic in and out of the hospital. Many of the locals were hired to do menial jobs, such as laundry, and assist with the patients’ needs. For most of them, the money they were paid was secondary to the food they received. They were basically free to help themselves to the buffet meals that were regularly served to the doctors, officers, enlisted men, and the patients.
One day after my surgery, another wounded man named Flanagan, who had been in his hospital bed for a week, asked me if I had been serviced by a “good time girl” yet. I had no idea what he was talking about. He smiled and explained what he meant.

Flanagan said that local Filipina girls were permitted to come into the hospital to perform sexual acts on any of the military personnel stationed here in exchange for being able to take as much food home as they could carry. This system also included patients. The nurses were complicit in this scheme, too. They informed the girls which patients were healthy enough for sexual activity and which ones had to be left alone to recuperate from their battle wounds. It almost certainly was against regulations, but to me it sounded like everyone benefitted in one way or another.

For two days I could only watch the goings-on as various local girls entered the hospital ward as visitors. They made their way to the desk occupied by the head nurse to find out which patients were “up to the task” of receiving sexual favors from them. I saw Flanagan get an energetic hand job from a thin, petite gal as all the local females seemed to be. He enjoyed it immensely. I was amused that as soon as the act was over, a nurse cleansed Flanagan and the girl got some sort of voucher signed by the head nurse. Apparently, that was her official permission that gave her access to the excess of food that was available that day.

One the third day of my convalescence, I was apparently on the mend well enough to get a treat. A small-breasted and very cute young lady said in slightly broken English, “You want hand job, soldier? I can do for you.”

I tried to explain to her that I wasn’t really a soldier but a lowly war correspondent, but I just got a blank stare from my visitor. Trying to converse with her was basically pointless, so I just nodded my consent to her wonderful offer
.
This girl, whose name I never learned, was thoroughly professional in her work despite her youthful appearance. She pulled down my shorts and promptly began to arouse my manhood. That was not especially difficult because it had been a long, long time between intimate encounters for me. She stroked it sensually with one hand then the other. When it rose to its fullest extent, she fondled my testicles with her right rand as she yanked on my rod with her left.

“Feel my tits if you like, soldier!” she offered. She lifted her blouse and exposed her small goodies to me. I was enthralled so I gently ran my right hand over them. I smiled at her—and she smiled in return. Then she brought me to a pleasing orgasm with a series of quick tugs. I moaned with delight as I ejaculated strongly. Most of my sizable cum shot ended up in small puddles on my body, although a few drops of semen struck this angel of mercy on her chin. The entire erotic episode may have lasted four minutes.

“All done!” she announced. “Maybe I come back tomorrow. Jerk you again, if you like.”

“Yes! Yes! I would like!” I told her. “Please return tomorrow. I would very much like!”

Part Two

I was quite content with getting a free hand job from a willing local cutie, knowing full well how many men in uniform presently engaged in brutal combat would envy such an opportunity for recreation. I did notice something later that same day when I watched another girl show up to please another injured patient in the ward. His name was Miller—and he was getting more than a mere tug on his penis from this sweetheart. He was receiving full intercourse! Again, the nurses on call in the ward thought nothing of it. (They did try to avert their eyes as best they could until the deed was done, however, despite it being almost impossible.)

When Miller had finished his fuck—which was quite a noisy one—I asked him how he merited this extra and highly desirable service when I got something considerably less. The answer he provided was straightforward.

“I pay for it,” Miller bluntly told me. “Sometimes I use cash. Five dollars usually covers it. That seems to be the going rate. Sometimes the girl is quite content just getting items from my Red Cross package, such as chocolate, chewing gum or cigarettes. I’m more than happy to swap these items for a quick fuck.”

I regularly received Red Cross packages too, even though as a non-combatant I probably wasn’t entitled to them. Whenever they were distributed, I was handed one, too. I greatly accepted the treats like everyone else. I was a non-smoker and didn’t often chew gum, so I typically gave these items to the first soldier I came across. Silly me! I didn’t realize they were the equivalent of local currency. Damn, I could have used it to get laid!

I was a quick learner, though. I was fully prepared the next time my hand job girl dropped by for a conjugal visit! By pure luck, Red Cross packages had been delivered a few hours earlier to each patient in the ward. When I got mine, I began sorting out its contents. Apart from the chocolate bar which I kept for myself, I set aside every other item for the purpose of bartering for sex. I even tossed in extra items that I could get easily as a journalist, but were probably impossible for Filipino citizens to get in 1945: notepads, pencils, stationery, etc. When my girl showed up, I got her attention and quickly pointed to the cache of goodies. I used a few vulgar gestures and hand signals to indicate what I wanted. It did not take her long to figure out I was willing to exchange those belongings of mine for an enjoyable roll in the hay with her—or in my case, a ride on a hospital bed.

“Yes! I do a fuck with you for all of this!” she excitedly told me. “I keep most of them for myself. Others I sell on the black market!”

By this point in my recuperation, I was feeling better, but my legs weren’t very strong because of the muscle damage caused by the shrapnel wounds. That meant I was literally still flat on my back. Of course, that also meant my Filipina doll would have to mount me rather than vice versa. Somehow, she knew that would be necessary.

She quickly disrobed completely while I just discarded my shorts. I was so excited to be having sex for the first time since I left for the Far East that my penis was fully erect long before my partner began caressing it. Her tiny stature was a turn-on. There was very little foreplay preceding my paid-for girl sliding herself on my erection. I helpfully guided her up and down, stopping occasionally to grope her pokey little tits.

The feeling was fabulous. Some people are born to be artists or orators or musicians. This girl was born to be fucked! She was the total package: Active, passionate, and affectionate. I wish I could have stayed inside her for hours. Unfortunately, by my estimation I lasted just under ten minutes before I blew a load inside her.

She praised my actions in bed although she literally did all the work during our short session of nookie. “Good cum, soldier!” she insisted. I wanted to keep her on my rod as long as possible, but when it became flaccid, she became bored. She dismounted, kissed me sweetly on the cheek, got her paperwork signed by the head nurse, and then moved onto another customer in the ward who wanted the full services she provided. At least I could watch her at work for a little while longer.

Part Three

I was in bed in that hospital ward for about two weeks in total. I stayed longer than was really necessary to be observed by staff as I began an exercise program designed to strengthen my legs. My recuperation progressed very well. I could have left the hospital a day or two earlier than I actually did, but I wanted to wait for the return of my nameless Filipina girl. The wanted to give her a good fucking with me on top before I returned to my job as a war correspondent.

She arrived early one morning. I didn’t have too many items to trade, but I did wave a $5 bill at her as I sat up. That amount got me another fuck with her. Once she was in her birthday suit, I took her by surprise when I rose from the bed, placed her on her back, and climbed upon her. I gave her tiny tits a minute or so of my attention—sucking and licking them—before I eagerly mounted her for the thrills of vaginal penetration. I have to admit I wasn’t gentlemanly about my lovemaking this time. I just thrusted my erect penis in and out of her delightful pussy over and over again.

“Oh, good fuck, soldier! Well done! You are a healthy man now!” she told me quaintly. I smiled but I wasn’t in the mood for chit chat—even if the conversation was entirely about my sexual performance in screwing her. I really enjoyed the experience! My loud grunts got the attention of a few of the ward’s patients who had become my chums during my stay. “Knock off the noise, Mulgrew!” one of them said with a laugh. “I’m trying to concentrate on the novel I’m reading!” I paid no attention and continued to penetrate my small Filipina cutie until I came. Like the first time I had fucked her, I didn’t consider pulling out when the critical moment arrived. Also, like the first time, I had a superb orgasm. There’s just something about a pretty, young Asian gal that works wonders on drawing the most from a Caucasian penis.

When I returned to covering the final days of the war from the safety of a desk job miles away from the front, I penned several first-person pieces about my recovery from my shrapnel wounds. I included colorful descriptions of my horizontal activities with a local girl—knowing full well they’d be edited out by the censors with none of salacious tales ever appearing in print. I later found out that my editor personally amended my submissions long before any censor could ruin them. He outright lied, though. He wrote (on my behalf) that I spent most of my idle hours in bed doing crosswords puzzles and trying to follow baseball.

The old adage was true: The first casualty of war is truth!