Noblesse Oblige
Book Three
The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling

By: Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2014 by the authors)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 9
Johnnie Get Your Gun 

Bunny Wilber III was one of the youngest members of the City Club.  Under his expensive suit was a pair strong shoulde—rs.  They were Chicago shoulders—it was, as has been observed, a town of big-shouldered men who made things happen.  He was a good-looking ex-college boy, with dark straight hair that he wore slicked back to reveal an attractive cowlick, visible when he removed his snappy straw boater.  He had a way of standing in repose that was slightly stooped with his hands in the pockets of his high-waisted suit trousers when he was deep in thought, a characteristic that he shared with his father, older clubmen remembered.

The City Club held its regular, earnest forums in its rooms in La Salle Street.  The talk this week had been, once again, on the civic improvements outlined in a vast and comprehensive plan devised by their late member, Daniel Burnham.  Today they discussed the proposed demolition of the Rush Street swing bridge and its replacement with one that would carry Michigan Avenue north across the river into Pine Street.  This would create a new gateway to the Loop and allow the business district to spread towards the Water Tower.  All agreed it was a good step for Chicago, which was bursting at the seams with energy.

Bunny was all in favour of such sweeping improvements; he was a true Chicagoan after all. Bunny’s grandfather, Col J.R. Wilbur, had come to Chicago from Kentucky with his infant son, Bunny’s father, before the Fire and had seen the city grow from a mere village of log cabins into a metropolis of millions of people, and considerably more of hogs and cattle, in just one lifetime.  My own father’s own lifetime, Bunny reflected, with his hands in his trouser pockets, is likely to be much more curtailed.  A stroke had left the widower paralysed and confined to his large, empty house in Lake Forest where twice a day a servant pushed him around the garden his Bunny’s mother had planted just before she died.  Bunny was conscious of the sad fact that his poor parents had never really got to enjoy the house that was the acme of their social triumph, having taken part in the flight from once-fashionable Prairie Avenue on the South Side.  His mother, a Leiter, somehow just withered away with an illness and, after Bunny’s living alone in the big house with his grieving father for two years (Bunny’s sister having married and moved east), the poor man suffered the stroke that would have been kinder had it carried him off.

No, the reason why Bunny did not want to see the area around the Water Tower become too swanky was because his favourite club, the ‘Dil Pickle’, reached by low, anonymous doorway with the word ‘Danger!’ painted above it, was located in Tooker Alley nearby.

Towertown and the Dil Pickle Club were thrillingly bohemian and louche and this appealed to Bunny and Hoyt.  It was a district of seedy furnished rooms, poets, painters, Wobblies, anarchists, ladies who gave ‘French lessons’ and boys.  It was all so stimulatingly different from the stuffy carriage folk of Prairie Avenue and the quiet estates of Lake Forest in the distant north.  Bunny loved the city with its rough edges and its sense of anonymity.  It was not Paris or London, but it was the closest he could come to in Chicago where he felt starved for something that he knew the Middle West could not provide.  The civic improvers, he feared, may sweep away this little corner in their zeal, just like they closed down the Levee in the First Ward.

“Wilbur,” said Joseph Ogden Armour, “I need you to be on the welcoming committee for these visiting British soldiers.  Mayor Thompson has refused point blank to meet them; however Springfield, not to mention Washington, wants us to roll out the red carpet.  Chicago is going to war.”

“What will the War mean for us, Mr Armour?” asked Bunny.

“Well, I was just talking to Insull, and he agrees.  Firstly, the Army will need lots of things.”

“Including meat?”

“Certainly they will need meat; all of Europe will need it.  But they will also need guns, uniforms, paper clips, motor trucks, Bibles, lumber—everything.  We’re the sixth biggest German-speaking city in the world as Bill Thompson is fond of pointing out, but I think Chicago boys will fight—the Poles and Germans and the Irish, all of ’em.  That means we will need more workers and there’s no more coming from Europe.  I’ve already advertised for Negros to come north; better wages than sharecropping and no union troubles for us.”

“Where will they live?’

“South Side, State Street into the fifties.  Now these Britishers” he said, returning to his previous topic, “Are brothers or something.  One is a lord and a colonel, although he is only your age, and the other is a decorated hero.  Haven’t you seen the papers?” 

He found a copy the ‘Inquirer’ and showed Bunny a picture of Martin and Stephen taken in Philadelphia.  “That one should be making movies,” he said, indicating Stephen who was smiling radiantly at the camera with his officer’s cap in his hands.  “They’ll be speaking at the Auditorium on Tuesday and to us on Wednesday and will be at the Coliseum on Wednesday night.  The British Consul and Col Hamilton from the Army are organizing it.  They will be here tomorrow.  Can you meet them?”

Bunny decided, partly on the basis of the newspaper photograph and partly on the basis of him wanting to meet a real lord that he would and was given the details.  He decided not to return to his office in South Dearborn Street, where he attended to his father’s business, but instead headed home to his apartment on Lake Shore Drive.  The apartment had been his escape from his father and Lake Forest respectability—not that 999 Lake Shore Drive was not respectable; it was.  It was more that it was urban and within reach of the Loop and the Dil Pickle Club.  Bunny needed the apartment, he had told his father, so he could get to his office quicker.  He could have come more romantically by motor launch from Lake Forest as his father used to, but the streetcar was more convenient, he said.  Bunny was no European idler; he believed all young men should work, although he harboured, in a corner of his heart, a hankering for the bohemian life, but work and business were as ingrained in him as the grime of the city itself.

Dwight Sleeper Hoyt was at home when he let himself in.  Like Bunny, Hoyt had played a little football at college until the pressure of Medicine forced him to give it up.  Bunny had abandoned his Business degree when his father fell ill, while Hoyt still continued to study, moving in with Bunny when he took the apartment.  Dwight Hoyt was the best thing he got out of Northwestern, thought Bunny.

“I’m going to meet two British guys Tuesday, Rip,” said Bunny, walking over to his desk and kissing him on the top of his blonde head.  “They’re soldiers and one is a duke or something.  They’re our age.  Wanna come?”

“They the ones whose pictures were in the paper?” answered Hoyt, as he put down his pen.

“That’s them.  Gorgeous, huh?”

“Obviously got you pretty riled up.  Come over here, Bunny, and get between my legs.  You can practice your grovelling,” said Hoyt unbuttoning his fly. 

***** 

Martin and Stephen obtained their first impressions of Chicago, of which they had heard so much, as soon as they stepped from the train.  They were tired, for sleep in the Pullman berths was impossible as the train sped across the flat prairie farmlands.  The first electric jolt was the enormous Union Station, which had been under construction since 1913 they were told.  “It’s been planned by Daniel Burnham,” was a phrase they would repeatedly hear in this city that seemed intent on tearing itself down and rebuilding on a vast scale.  They stepped down from the train and were immediately surrounded by newspaper reporters as they had been in New York.  There were representatives of the Army to shake their hands and a military band crashed out a marvellous new tune:

Over there Over there…

We’ll be over, we’re coming over,

And we won’t come back till it’s over

over there.

The crowd joined in song and tears rolled down the boys’ cheeks.

They pulled themselves together for the photographers.  There were a number of young women on the platform who jostled to shake their hands, one bold girl in a blue dress kissing Stephen on the cheek.  A newspaper photographer caught that.  They were asked twenty questions at once.  They shook hands with Mr Samuel Insull, Mr Embling who was the British Consul, Mr Joseph Armour, Mrs Potter Palmer and one of her sons, a Mr Cermak who was a politician and Mr Cyrus Hall McCormick who manufactured farm machinery and Mr Isham Randolph, who they were told concisely as they shook that gentleman’s hand, had just dug the Panama Canal and had made  the Chicago River run backwards.  Last were Jack Rabberts Wilbur III and Dwight Sleeper Hoyt who were described as the heirs to the Chicago Tunnel Company and the Hoyt Latch & Fastener Company respectively.  Martin, then Stephen, shook their hands, smiles passing between them, acknowledging the freemasonry of the young. “I’ll call you at Blackstone,” cried Bunny as the boys were whisked from their grasp.

The Auditorium Building was the most remarkable modern building; in a style that it was difficult to give a name to, but the vaulted chamber with its concealed lights was a magical space in which to speak.  And there were many speeches to endure.  The audience was at first ‘fired up’ but then began to droop as some of the more long-winded greybeards held the floor.  There were a great many young ladies in the audience who began to talk amongst themselves until the boys got up.

Martin spoke of his home, Croome, and what it meant to him and of how the Earl of Holdenhurst’s Yeomanry had been founded during the emergency of the Napoleonic Wars when Britain faced invasion (he hoped that America had not been an enemy then, but wasn’t quite sure how they had viewed the French Emperor’s attempt to dominate Europe).  He spoke of the small nations like Belgium and Luxemburg being invaded and the desperate fight to save Paris and the French Republic.  With his golden hair and youthful looks, he set many a Chicago girl’s heart was aflutter.

When Stephen rose to speak there was wild applause.  He said, once again, how the sense of comradeship was the most compelling reason he had continued to fight and that he hoped it would all be back to ‘business as normal’ soon — this sentiment for the Chicagoans.  Someone called out about his medal.  He replied to the effect that it was something he just did for his men.  That drew a further round of wild applause and when he pushed his black hair back from his left eye, where it had fallen, and gave a radiant smile, many of the girls could be seen fanning themselves with their programs and urging their own young men into uniform.

Bunny and Dwight met them afterwards as arranged.  “Would you gentlemen like to go out for a drink and some entertainment?” he asked, simply, not really knowing how to speak to a Marquess.

“That would be marvellous, Mr Wilbur” said Martin, looking at Stephen who nodded eagerly.

“Please, call me Bunny; everyone else does.”

“Bunny?”

“Yes, Jack Rabberts Wilbur…”

“Oh, in that case…” and soon it was Martin, Stephen, Bunny and Dwight.  The four of them liked each other immediately.  The Americans were too shy to ask much, but freely and without the usual Anglo-Saxon shame, told of their own families’ wealth and its origins in trade.  The tunnels were miniature railways beneath the streets of the Loop and on both sides of the river.  Their main job was to remove ashes and deliver mail and freight that would otherwise require many motor trucks and wagons in the already unbearably crowded streets. The Hoyt Latch & Fastener Company was the largest manufacturer of its kind in the Middle West and was started by Dwight’s grandfather who lived in Winnetka.  Dwight was studying to be a doctor.

The taxi took them far to the south down Cottage Grove Avenue to the long grassy median called The Midway.  There, Martin entered the most remarkable building he had ever seen.  It was a German-style beer garden, but the architecture was more oriental with curious towers that erupted into projections.  There were complicated brick walls and grey stone carved into ornaments.  The differing levels made it hard to tell whether you were inside or out.  There was an orchestra playing on a stage under a shell and waiters emerged from tunnels bearing trays of food and drink for the patrons who sat at tables with little electric lamps and the stars above.  “It is magical,” Martin kept repeating, finding it hard to take in all its complications.

They started off talking about their tour and then Dwight said: “Your name is Poole, right Martin?  And yours is Knight-Poole, is that right Stephen?  Are you cousins or something?”

Stephen explained a little of his history and the Americans were fascinated.  “You mean you’re just the same as Bunny and me?” said Dwight.

No, I was born poor and I would never have gone to university had…that is unless…if …had I not met Martin,” he finished in a rush.  Martin smiled at him and Dwight and Bunny exchanged glances.

“I would never have dared to move into the city had it not been for Dwight coming to live with me,” volunteered Bunny.  I love it and Dwight is the best fellow to live with, except he leaves beer bottles all over the place and we don’t have a maid.”

“You don’t?” asked Martin, thinking of all his servants.

“No,” said Bunny going red. “We found it best not to have servants.”

“Well Stephen and I live together in London and at Croome—which is in the country.  But Stephen also has a cottage in France where we look after ourselves—no servants at all.  He makes me clean the toilet.”

The Americans laughed and blushed at the frank mention of bathroom fittings but at the same time began to wonder about the exact nature of their living arrangements.  Then the food came: German sausages, potatoes, pickles, sauerkraut and more beer.

“I hope you don’t mind German food—what with the War, but we are a German town,” said Dwight, as the boys, yet again, watched in fascination while the Americans vigorously cut up their food with their knives and, abandoning them, took up their forks and ate like children in the nursery.

“Not at all,” replied Martin, “I like it.  My grandmother was German and Stephen and I went to Germany, before the War.”

The beer flowed and Bunny, enthralled by the transatlantic glamour of the two good-looking visitors asked:  “So tell me Martin, what’s it like being a lord?” Martin tried to explain, but it was difficult.  He fell to talking about the House of Lords and his father’s less than illustrious career there.

“But Martin cannot take his seat, because he is not 21,” said Stephen.

“But I can and I am 21, Derby, today’s my birthday.”

“Mala!” cried Stephen, jumping up and hugging him, causing Henry and Dwight to exchange more looks at the use of intimate names and the display of obvious affection.  “I had no idea.  With all this travelling I had completely forgotten the date.  Of course it’s your birthday!  I’m such a chump!  This calls for more beer, gentlemen, doesn’t it?”

It did and much later the talk turned to the Dil Pickle Club.  This time it was Martin and Stephen who exchanged looks, thinking of Boston.

“Can we all go there tomorrow night?” asked Bunny.  Martin and Stephen were keen but Dwight couldn’t because he had an evening lecture. “Well, the next night?”

“We have to be in Waukegan then the following evening in Milwaukee and two days later, Indianapolis, then off to Grand Rapids before going on to Detroit and Cleveland.”

“But why can’t you stay here in Chicago and just go to the closest ones on the train—the worst you’d have to do is stay overnight and you wouldn’t need to pack up.  Indianapolis is not much more than three hours on the train.”

“I suppose we could.  Carlo could look after things here, couldn’t he Mala?” said Stephen.

“It’s the shifting hotels that is so exhausting.  And we’d love to go the Dil Pickle Club.  What is a dill pickle?”  

***** 

When they returned to the hotel Martin was surprised to find the drawing room full of men drinking beer.  He turned to Stephen. “Who are these people?”

“They’re a surprise.  It’s the palm court orchestra from the Congress Hotel.  It’s my birthday present to you.”

“Oh Derby, you did remember!”

“Of course.  Happy birthday, Mala.”  He led Martin into the bedroom and closed the door. The sounds of violins tuning up and a few beery belches could be heard coming through the door.  Stephen undressed quickly and got into bed and watched while Martin took off his clothes more slowly.  He stood there stroking his blonde cock as he looked at Stephen sitting up in bed with his arms folded across his chest, grinning.

“The rest of your present is coming, Mala.”

“I hope so”, replied Martin as he slid in next to the naked body of his muscular lover, letting his hard cock drift over his ribs, hip and hairy thigh.  The orchestra started up with the waltz from the ‘Merry Widow’.

With tender kisses from the big lad, who now had both arms wrapped about him, Martin was treated to his favourite pleasures while the orchestra played on, inspiring Stephen to greater heights, sometimes performed in time to Franz Lehar’s tempo.

About an hour later Carlo came in bearing a tray, quickly shutting the door behind him.

“Just a minute Carlo,” called Stephen.  It was more like 15, but Carlo enjoyed watching and when Stephen had spilled again, deep inside Martin, he brought the tray over.  There was champagne and a very gooey cake, full of cream and alcohol.  “Just water for me Carlo, I have to keep my concentration up and I don’t want to nod off.”

“Oh yes, Carlo,” said Martin in alarm, “water only for the Captain.”

“Happy birthday, your lordship,” said Carlo as he served the cake.  Stephen and Carlo took turns in feeding Martin the cake with a fork and then Stephen got silly and put the cream in all sorts of rude places and Martin and Carlo were compelled to lick it off.

Stephen was sponged and given drinks of water and was soon ready to return to his pleasant labours.  When Martin had been satisfied again he said: “Carlo, I think I’d like to watch you suck Mr Stephen that is if you’d like to.”

“Oh your lordship, it’s not on my list of duties and not my birthday until next week, but, of course, if that’s an order…”

Carlo was sent out to dismiss the orchestra who were coming to the end of a selection from Victor Herbert’s ‘Naughty Marietta’.

“The music was lovely, Derby.”

“Did you like my ‘Vilja’—I could sing it again, Mala?”

“No, Derbs,” he said kissing him. “You have delighted us long enough, Mary.  Let other girls have time to exhibit.”

“Well,” said Stephen in a huff, pretending to be hurt, “it’s lucky they were playing or the hogs down on South Halstead Street would have thought one of their own was up here when you squealed.”

“I do not squeal…much… It’s just that you are so bloody big,” Martin replied, biting Stephen’s brown nipple about which a tuft of silky black hair curled.  Stephen smirked.

Carlo returned and they took his clothes off.  “It was never this good in the trenches, sir,” said Carlo, “although it had its moments.”

“Let’s not mention the War, Carlo.  You took good care of me when I needed it most.”

Carlo opened wide his jaws and engulfed Stephen’s manhood, pausing for a minute to observe that he still tasted of birthday cake.  His jaws began to ache and Martin took over for a few minutes. “I’d like Carlo to swallow it all when you spill, Derby.  He’s working awfully hard and I shouldn’t get all the treats,” said Martin who was now assisting with his hands.  At last Stephen spilled as Martin kissed him.  Carlo arose, eyes watering and Stephen’s seed oozing from the corners of his mouth.

“Was that good Carlo?” asked Stephen, with great sincerity.

“One of your best, sir,” said Carlo, looking up at him.  Both Stephen and Martin beamed with pride.

“Now Carlo, give his lordship your present.  He wants it,” said Stephen.  Martin nodded in confirmation and greedily opened his mouth.  Carlo, assisted by Stephen with helpful suggestions as to technique obliged his master who promised in the heat of passion, to raise his wages by two-and-fourpence-hap’ny a week.

More champagne and ice water were consumed— the cake all but ruined when Martin sat on it—and soon Stephen was ready again.  Carlo wished to excuse himself, but the other two insisted that his services were still required.  He applied Eez-O (Patent pending) and noted that the new tube was almost exhausted.  He assisted, although it was not strictly necessary, in Stephen’s inserting of himself in his lordship, once again, and aided matters by massaging Stephen’s balls, which had proved themselves so productive under the influence of operetta. He marvelled at how his lordship could accommodate the invasion.  Martin saw what he was thinking. “It feels wonderful Carlo.  See how much my boy loves me?”

“It’s terrifying, your lordship,” he said.  “When I was a child and my mother was making a cake,” continued Carlo after Stephen had spent again, “I was allowed to lick the bowl and spoon.  Those stolen treats were the best,” he said as he licked the head of Stephen’s cock where much that was a treat remained.

After that, Carlo left the lovers to their privacy and took himself to bed, thinking of their morning baths and his own birthday, which he decided should be conveniently celebrated next week rather than more properly in November.

***** 

The next morning Bunny called and took them on a tour of the city.  He showed them the building where his father’s company had its offices and then they rode on the elevated train to the South Side where it passed through a vast sea of factories and timber cottages and entered another world entirely: Packingtown.  Here the rails were above the very pens of the cattle that had been transported from the far extremities of prairie.  These seemed to go on forever.  The train stopped at each of the stinking abattoirs of Swift & Armour and Libby, McNeil & Libby and dozens of Polish workers poured off the train for the next shift.  The sights and sounds were appalling and the smell of death seriously upset Stephen.

The train performed a circle and headed back to the Loop.  As they passed close to the dirty river, choked with ships and barges and flanked by coal dumps, factories, freezing works and warehouses, Stephen asked, “What did they mean when they said the river flowed backwards, Bunny?”

“It does,” Bunny said, “We made it,” and went on to tell how instead of polluting Lake Michigan and the city’s water supply, the river now flowed out of the Lake and by canal across the hills to the Mississippi. “Freight can come through the Great Lakes and go on down to New Orleans.  Amazing, isn’t it?”  It was; there didn’t seem to be anything too big for Chicago to tackle.

At the corner of State and Madison, which seemed hellishly busy with traffic, Bunny led the boys through a doorway and descended in a lift that Bunny confidently operated.  They emerged into a quiet space where, under the electric lamps, steel rails could be seen glinting down egg-shaped tunnels.  A rumble announced the arrival of a little electric engine towing a string of wooden trucks loaded with mailbags.  The driver behind the headlamp waved and the boys waved back.  “We had bad union trouble a few years back.  It’s solved now,” explained Bunny. “There’s 60 miles of track.  The original owners built it for telephone lines.  They went broke and my father bought it.  He made his money in real estate.  My grandfather made it in lumber.”  Another train appeared carrying a load of soot and ash.  “These trucks have doors in the floor to dump the ash automatically,” volunteered Bunny.  It was all remarkable, the boys thought when they regained the street.

***** 

It was time for their talk at the City Club.  The boys, now in their British uniforms, were faced by the most prominent people in Chicago.  Mr Charles Wacker, said to be the successor of Mr Burnham himself, made it clear that he was opposed to the War.  He was a second generation American, originally from Germany and his father had been a brewer.  He spoke well, taking off his little round glasses to emphasise a point.  The boys were feeling uncomfortable.

Stephen was invited to reply.

“I admire your city, Mr Wacker.  I am an engineering student myself.  You have built it and improved it with tremendous energy.  The world knows your city was once utterly destroyed. I have seen cities and towns destroyed in Belgium, not by a cow kicking over a lantern, but wantonly.  I want the War to end like every normal person does, so we can rebuild Europe like the Chicagoans rebuilt their home.  But I don’t want not to fight the flames.  If we don’t fight, we lose.  We must fight, not to win, but so we don’t lose.  Yes, the cost is high, but who knows more than the citizens of this city the costs of keeping safe your home?

Mr Hoyt took Col Poole and me out to Lincoln Park to see the wonderful statue of that President by Mr Saint-Gaudens.  The President looks as if he knows the heavy cost of fighting but he also knows that a country sometimes must fight.”  With that Stephen sat down and there was silence for a moment and then hearty applause broke out—even Mr Wacker being gracious.

It was a hard act to follow, so Martin didn’t try.  He simply said that he was at university when war was declared in August 1914 and that he had a long and curious family tradition to follow and that is how he found himself an officer in the British Army.

A luncheon and discussion followed.  The boys were asked many questions.  Martin was distressed by how many saw the war as purely a business opportunity and many questions related to business conditions in Britain, which Martin couldn’t answer.  He reflected afterwards that this was simply the language that Chicagoans talked and the more human aspects of the war, if not the high principles that Stephen tried to evoke, would be brought home to them when their own sons and grandsons were fighting.

Their evening talk was quite different.  The Coliseum was an enormous barn of a place, which they reached by the streetcar line along Wabash Ave.  Their hosts explained that it had once been an infamous prison in Virginia during the Civil War and was rebuilt as a grim museum.  There was a huge crowd that was being entertained by a noisy Army band.  Many in the crowd were young women and various sections held aloft signs showing the organizations they represented.  There was no seating and no chance that anybody could hear what was being said, despite one man shouting through a megaphone.  Martin and Stephen looked at each other and, for the second time in the day, abandoned their set speeches.

Various people were presented on the stage and they were cheered tumultuously and the music played insanely.  Lord Branksome, the Marquess of Croome and a Colonel in the British Army was waved to the front by the master of ceremonies who clapped him on the back and raised his arm like a boxing champion.  The crowd screamed their approval.  Next Stephen came forward and saluted.  The hall erupted into more cheers, with wild shrieks from the women.  He smiled and waved and then moved to the rear and stood next to Martin.  They both acknowledged, dumbly, people in the crowd who called to them as the next person—a popular ‘ward boss’ called The Bathhouse— took a bow, not even bothering to remove his cigar or hat.

So it went on, with the Army band playing ‘Tipperary’ and the recruiting people now taking over.  The whole thing was mad and Martin and Stephen slipped away at the first opportunity.

They returned to the Blackstone and changed into mufti before heading off, as per Bunny’s directions, to the Dil Pickle in Towertown.  They found the old barn with the green lantern in the dark—it was not easy—and ducked their heads as instructed and prepared to ‘abandon their dignity’ as the sign instructed.  Some stairs led to a smoky room filled with tables and chairs.  They scanned the horizon and there were Bunny and Dwight waving at them.

“How did your talk go?” asked Dwight Sleeper Hoyt.  They told him and he shrugged. “Sounds like a typical election rally.”

They ordered beer and Bunny was busy pointing out the patrons to Martin.  There were some ladies sitting with their arms about each other— a closer look revealing that they were indeed real ladies. “Look at those two,” said Bunny.  Martin followed his glance and there were two boys with their arms about each other’s waists.  Martin felt he’d like to put his arm about Stephen, but didn’t.  Bunny paused while they watched.  Then Martin’s eyes wandered through the smoke to some men with beards who were obviously anarchists on the European model. “That’s Carl Sandberg over there,” said Bunny at last, pointing to a man with a thin Scandinavian face and white hair.  He’s written a book of poems about Chicago.  Hey Sherwood!  Come over here!” he suddenly called.  A man in middle life came over.  Some beer got him talking.  He was trying to write, he said, and had just had his second novel published. ‘Marching Men’ was evidently about trade unionism and a London publisher had picked it up.  Stephen and Martin wished him well.

“I’ll need to do well or it will be back to selling mail order roof paint.  I’ve left my wife to come back here.  Can’t write in Ohio.”

They fell to talking about the War, which Mr Anderson thought was the product of capitalism.  Martin was glad that he was unaware that he was titled.  He was a little depressing and so Martin was not altogether sorry when he left them.  The two boys were now kissing, no one taking much notice, except for the four pairs of eyes on Martin’s table.  There was a lull in the conversation.  Stephen couldn’t stand the tension a moment longer and leaned over and gave Martin a kiss on the lips.  There was a visible sigh of relief at the as the ice was broken.

“He’s a good kisser,” said Martin by way of justification for his action as he poured more beer from the jug. “That’s how he got his pips.”

“Yes,” said Stephen, wiping foam from his mouth. “I kissed the colonel.”

“You’re kidding, right?” asked Bunny in bewilderment.

“Yes, I’m kidding, Bunny.  English humour.”

“We live together, Bunny, we’re a couple, like you and Dwight, am I right?” said Martin.

Bunny nodded and went red. “He blushes like a school girl,” laughed Dwight.

“So does Martin,” said Stephen, laughing along with him.  Two blows from their lovers did not dampen their merriment.  Then they fell to talking about more personal matters, including how they managed to conceal their relationships from outsiders.

“You are so lucky you have servants you can trust,” said Bunny.  “You know, Dwight,” he said turning to him, “we could set up a company providing discreet servants across the city. We could work on a percentage.”  But before this business proposal could be floated Martin steered the conversation in another direction.  Stephen was made to kiss Bunny and Dwight and they both agreed he had ‘technique’.  Stephen gave a sheepish smirk and pushed his hair back from his eyes.

It wasn’t too long before they found themselves on the Chicago Ave streetcar heading the half a dozen blocks to the Lake where Bunny and Dwight’s 10 story block of apartments stood by itself but in an area that was obviously being quickly reclaimed and developed. There were lights, out on the black water of the Lake and all along the boulevard.  A lift took them to the tenth floor. “There’s a garden on the roof,” explained Bunny.  The flat or ‘apartment’ as they called it was quite spacious and its bay windows looked out over the Lake.  “There’s a beach down there that’s very popular in the summer, said Bunny.

“Yes, I can’t tear him away from the window when the boys are out,” said Dwight.

“You can talk: I actually saw him with binoculars and his hand down his trousers last Fourth of July.”

“It’s true,” confessed Hoyt.  “It was more exciting than the fireworks.”

The room was untidy with clothes and books, but there was no evidence of the empty beer bottles. “I’m sorry we haven’t any food, but there is more beer, if Rip hasn’t drunk it.  Rip Van Winkle— a ‘sleeper’ in an American tale,” explained Bunny. “Sometimes it’s ‘Dozy’ or ‘Pullman’.”

The boys laughed but didn’t think they would reveal the origins of their pet names just yet. Instead they drank more beer.

“Do you know any more couples like us?” asked Hoyt.

“Well, we’ve come across some,” replied Stephen. “We have friends in London,” he said thinking of Jack Thayer and Charles Fortune.

“And Stephen was able to get them a housekeeper,” put in Martin.  “Although actually it was one of our servants who knew a sympathetic mother—her son was in gaol.”

“And we met a couple in New York.  He’s an artist,” continued Stephen.  “There must be thousands in hiding, fearing their families and the police.”  They were silent for some minutes and Martin cuddled up to Stephen.

“You make us feel good,” said Bunny, looking for confirmation from Hoyt who nodded.

“Why don’t you kiss Bunny, Dwight, because I want to kiss the Captain right now.”

Without waiting for an answer, and possibly under the influence of the beer, Martin climbed onto Stephen and kissed him violently and not particularly accurately, at the same time pulling at his shirt and undoing his trousers.

After a few minutes of silence, Stephen made Martin stop.  Martin looked around and could tell that Bunny and Hoyt were a little bit shocked. “I’m sorry,” said Martin, blushing and trying to tuck Stephen back into his garments, which was never easy.  “I got carried away.  It must be this Seipp’s beer; I’m unused to strong drink.”

“That’s all right,” said Bunny, “we’re not used to visitors up here.”

“And I forgot my manners,” said Martin, chastened.

“I’m thinking of enlisting,” said Bunny, changing the subject.

Stephen looked horrified. “It’s not pretty, Bunny, in fact I can’t describe how hellish it is.”  He tuned to Hoyt and said, “And Dwight, you must do good by finishing your degree and becoming a doctor, please don’t join up.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” he replied. “Are you serious Bun?”

“I think so.  I want to do something different.  Maybe not straight away, but I wanna get in before it’s all over.”

Marin and Stephen both rolled their eyes. “It’s not…” began Martin, but was unable to find the words. “We’d better be going.  We’re off to Waukegan tomorrow.”

“You’re coming back to Chicago in the evening?” asked Hoyt.  Martin replied that they were. “Well, how about we go down to White City for some fun tomorrow night —it’s an amusement park?”

“I’m sure we’d love to.”

“That’s swell,” responded Bunny. “You guys are ok.” 

***** 

The next day saw Martin and Stephen in their uniforms heading north, first to Evanston on the elevated train, then catching the ‘interurban’, an electric tramway service that went on to the next state sometimes through suburban streets, but mostly on its own dedicated tracks.  In a couple of hours they were there in North Genesee Street being welcomed by the mayor and Lake County officials.  The crowd in the hall reflected the small city, with its mixture of workmen from breweries, meat works and a wire factory, longshoremen from the port and middleclass fellows from the comfortable residential quarters they had passed.  For once the audience asked questions about the British war effort and what it meant to the people.  Martin and Stephen did their best to give honest answers.  “When do you think the war will end?” asked one mother.

“I can’t say, madam,” replied Stephen, looking sincere, “but it could be over next year or in 1919 if Americans come and lend a hand with men and supplies.  We need the Russians to keep fighting on Germany’s eastern front.  When I was in the trenches I imagined it might go on forever, but now I know it won’t.”

They returned in plenty of time for their evening at White City, which was a huge amusement park on the South Side.  There were ‘sideshows,’ including ‘Otto’s trained wild animals’, a vast restaurant and ballroom and ‘rides’ including a ‘scenic railway’ and a ‘shoot-the-chute’.  They had great fun and drank a lot of beer.  As they walked back from the palmist Martin whispered to Stephen: “Do you think they would come to bed with us?”

“No, I don’t think so, Mala; they’re a bit new to all this.”

“Am I a shocking tart, Derby?”

“Yes, I’m afraid you are, Mala,” he said with a straight face. 

***** 

The next day Carlo had them up early and out the door with their railroad tickets in their hand.  They found Dearborn Street station for line that took them to Indianapolis.  They dozed and talked quietly on the train.  “I’m glad we kissed Bunny and Dwight last night, Mala, said Martin quietly. “I know Dwight liked it.”

“Americans can be a bit funny Mala, said Stephen.  They can be very prudish.  Have you noticed they don’t ‘cus’ as they call it and their music hall is not in the least risqué.”

“Yes, they’re incredibly friendly, even to strangers—unlike us—but you never really get to know them, I think.  Still…I say, what do you think those two look like without their clothes?” giggled Martin, “They both are well-developed from the football I suppose—and all that milk that they drink.  I love Dwight’s shoulders.”

“And Bunny’s cowlick.”

They crossed the flat farmlands and passed through small cities until they at last reached Indianapolis with its automobile and glass factories and others that depended on oil and gas from wells sunk on the prairie.  After the boys had spoken many men in the audience stepped forward to enlist.  Martin and Stephen were positioned so they could shake hands with the volunteers.  They felt they had to say something and so alternated, ‘Good luck to you, sir,’ with ‘Safe home.’

It was midnight when they got back to Chicago, but Carlo had food and baths ready for them.

The next day was Milwaukee and they took the same route as they had for Waukegan, but continued on to the German brewing city.  They did not receive a warm welcome.  Victor Berger, a German-born socialist had written a vitriolic piece in a local paper on the preceding day and, even worse, there was an article in another by the Governor, Mr Follette, which painted Martin and Stephen as ‘preening aristocratic young stooges of the British War Office and the International Mercantile Marine Company which, with the cooperation of Wilson, allowed Americans to travel on armed passenger vessels loaded with contraband munitions and who now wants Americans to fight against Germany with whom we have no quarrel.’

Martin felt sick when he read this and didn’t want to speak at all. “There’s an element of truth in it isn’t there, Derby?” he said with tears in his eyes.

“Yes,” conceded Stephen.  “Follette is a good writer, but he and Berger are deluding themselves if they think that their radical views would be permitted in Germany or in countries Germany occupied.  We’re far from pure as the driven snow, but it would be a bad thing if the Central Powers were to triumph.  That Zimmerman telegram was no fake, was it, Mala?”

“No it was real, I think. I saw it.  We just couldn’t tell the Americans we had been eavesdropping.”

“We have to speak tonight.  It is now our duty.  We will just be honest.”

There were protesters outside the hall, led by Mayor Seidel himself, but few had made it inside.  Stephen, when he rose to his feet, tried not to preen and said he wouldn’t comment on whether America should be at war or not, but said that now that they were, their help was needed.  He repeated his views on the destruction of Louvain in 1914 and said that there was a tremendous spirit among his own men, but hoped that the war would be over soon.

Martin told the story of the letter from his cousin Friedrich and said how hard it was to fight against people who were just like us, but then contrasted this to the air raids by aeroplanes and zeppelins he had seen on his London and the anonymity of dropping bombs from the clouds onto sleeping cities.  That couldn’t be allowed to happen, he concluded sombrely.

There were protesters at the railway station so they turned back and made for the wharf where they waited until early the next morning, trying not to attract attention, and paid a dollar each to take the steamer down Lake Michigan.  It was lunchtime before they climbed into bed.

That night they went out to dinner and a vaudeville show on West Madison Street with Bunny and Dwight.  They ended up at the Dil Pickle Club where they were recognised by some political radicals, but Dwight made a joke and said, “These guys are all right” and that they were trying to destroy the capitalist system from within.  Thus the British warmongers were left unmolested.

“Can I come with you to Detroit and Cleveland?” asked Bunny suddenly.  “I could interpret.”

The three others looked at each other.  “Well, I don’t know Bunny, it would be nice of course…but there is Dwight to consider,” said Stephen who then had a hurried conversation with Dwight while Bunny was left in suspense.

“It’s alright.  Go Bunny.  I trust you, just don’t come back all British on me,” said Dwight.

Bunny beamed and they left soon after and went back to the Blackstone where Carlo had arranged supper and yet more beer.

“I think we could go by ferry to Grand Rapids where your talk is at lunchtime and then on to Detroit for one at night,” said Bunny looking at the schedule.  “Why are you going back to Cleveland?’

“The mayor, Mr Davis, is a supporter of the war effort but was away fishing until now,” replied Martin. “We should be back here by Saturday.  Is that all right with you, Carlo?”

“You will miss my birthday, your lordship,” said Carlo handing around the sandwiches.  “But I will find plenty to occupy myself in this city, sir.”

Stephen reappeared in the room wearing just his lemon silk pyjama bottoms that sat low on his hips and were but a mere fig leaf over his all-to-evident virility.  Dwight and Bunny stared.

“He’s all mine,” said Martin, a little drunk, and standing behind him with his arms about is chest.

“Is that real?” asked Bunny.

“Oh I think so,” said Martin roguishly. “Here look at this.” He pushed the waistband down a little further to reveal the soft, silky hair fashioned into the cruciform shape of the military decoration. “But I want it in the shape of a heart again—at least when peace comes.”  Stephen stood there mute and desirable.  “You could see more…if you both weren’t so burdened with clothes,” said Martin boldly. “Yes, I am a slut, Derbs.”

Dwight didn’t give Bunny time to think and pulled at his friend’s jacket and trousers and then at his own.  Soon they stood there with their handsome forms concealed and disfigured by their long underwear.  They both had big bulges where Martin and Stephen had hoped.  Martin, still standing behind Stephen, lowered the lemon silk an inch or two to reveal more. “I’m working up an act for ‘The Midway,’” he joked, using the vernacular term.

“I’d pay ten cents,” said Dwight.

“I’d shell out two bits,” said Bunny.

Stephen walked over and embraced each one in turn, pulling off their remaining garments at the same time.  Martin collected them and flung them aside for Carlo to scavenge and propelled the trio into the bedroom where he removed his own clothes.

There was much kissing and close inspection. “I want to show you just how much my Stephen loves me,” said Martin to Bunny and Dwight. “Do you mind?”

“We don’t…I mean we only ever…you know,” said Dwight.

“We won’t if you’d rather we didn’t,” said Stephen.

Bunny’s eyes were glazed over, but Dwight said: “No, go ahead, we’d love to watch.”

“You’ll need to do more than watch,” said Martin as he slid the luxuriant silky brown foreskin of Stephen cock backwards and forwards with his hands.

They took turns in pleasuring each other and then vied to apply the Eez-o to Stephen. “This is good stuff,” said Bunny, pausing from his labours to read the box: “‘All pure ingredients. Now with Porcine Triglycerides Emulsion to banish pain’.  I wonder if I can buy stock in this?”

“Hurry up Bun, I’m dyin’ here,’ called Dwight.

And so Dwight and Bunny, as was their want, pleasured each other with their hands and mouths, while Stephen and Martin aided them by feeling their muscles and delivering kisses of their own.  Then, at last, Stephen threw Martin’s legs back and entered him while the two Americans watched. There were tears in his eyes and he grimaced.

“Does it hurt?” asked Dwight in curiosity.

“Yes,” said Martin as he reached up and kissed Stephen.

“Do you want him to pull out?” asked Bunny, with concern.

“Oh yes, do you think he would?”

Bunny looked at Stephen. “No I don’t think so,”

“Oh well, he’d best get on with it then.  Give it to me good and hard, Derbs.  Show these two that it’s not just the Yanks that are coming — and you won’t come back till it’s over— over there.”

To be continued…  

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you. 

Posted: 03/14/14