An older fuck-buddy of mine used to delight in traumatizing the local kids. He was a WWII veteran and had taken part in the invasion of Italy by the Allies in 1943 when he was only eighteen years old. He was missing the top half of each of his fingers on his right hand - an injury which had occurred during the war, but he had never told me the details.

Pete, my veteran buddy, delighted in making up gruesome explanations - usually cautionary tales - for the kids, who were fascinated by his missing fingers and invariably asked about them when they first saw his fingerless hand. One of his favorites was that he was stealing pennies from the till in the candy store and the owner slammed the drawer shut on them. Another was that he used to pick his nose a lot, and his finger got stuck up there so the doctors cut them all off.

One Sunday afternoon while I was visiting, he had just horrified one of the neighbor kids with one of his little horror stories and sent him home crying, and Pete and I had retired to his bedroom for a little naked play, when I ventured to ask him,

"What's the true story of your fingers?"

"Well, if you give me your sacred promise never to tell anyone, I'll tell you the truth."

"I promise," I agreed. Pete is long dead and gone now, so I feel I can tell you what he told me and not really break my promise.

"As you know," said Pete, "I was in the Calgary Tanks. I was with them when we invaded Italy. I was just a kid at the time. I had joined the forces when I turned 16. Since then I had been mostly in England.

"When we invaded Italy, there was little resistance. The Italy army was practically falling apart, but German forces were coming down the Italian Peninsula to bolster then up.

"There were five of us in the tank crew: Dave, our commander; Larry and Bernie, the co-drivers; Franco, our gunner; and me, the baby of the crew, the loader. All five of us had been together since Calgary, and knew each other very well, if you know what I mean.

"Our tank was one of the old RAM jobbies, with hardly enough room inside to fart, and usually too hot to be wearing much in the way of uniforms, even running with the hatch open, so you were always brushing up against a semi-naked male body. Which, of course, eventually led to a little horseplay, and crotch groping, which led to some nice stiffies, and often to sex.

"And that's what happened on this particular day. We had been chugging up through Italy for day after day, never really seeing any resistance. We would pass through towns and villages. Some would welcome us with open arms, but most feared what would happen to then if the Germans arrived and they had been collaborating.

Somehow we had got detached from our contingent, but we kept on heading north anyway. We knew we would link up with them again eventually.

"This day, we had passed through one village and had managed to liberate ten litres of red wine, a huge salami, a couple of loaves of Italian bread, and some cheese and olives. Around noon, travelling through some arid, rocky, hill country, Dave ordered a lunch break. It was too hot to be just chugging along for no particular reason. We knew there was another village not too far up the road, but there was no sign of the villagers around here.

"We parked the tank at the side of the dirt road and hauled out a greasy blanket we had got from somewhere and our liberated loot, and proceeded to have ourselves a picnic. As there was no-one around, we also stripped off what was left of our clothes. All we were wearing were our boots. The ground was pretty rough.

"Of course, the wine was hot from its trip in the tank, and in no time at all, we were all pretty tanked - to make a crummy joke!

"And we were getting horny. My hard dick was ready for any hole it could find.

"But I was not going to be doing any butt-pounding today. It was my turn to be 'in the barrel' - if you know the expression?"

"Sure, I told him. "It was your turn to let the others fuck you."

"Right! We were a democratic sort of crew and we all took turns 'in the barrel', even Dave.

"And so we spread that crummy greasy old blanket on an outcrop of flat rock and I kneeled myself on it, ready for the taking.

'Dave, as commander, got to do me first. He was the biggest of the five of us, but he did not have the biggest cock in the crew. Actually, I did. My cock is pretty large, as you know from experience. But Dave sure did cook up a huge load of cum with that small cock. I guess his large balls made up for it. He squirted a hell of a load into me.

"That left me nicely lubed up for the other guys, and Larry, and then Bernie, and finally Franco got to make a deposit in my asshole. One after one they pumped their juice into me with their hoses, like filling an empty gas tank.

"Franco was just finishing, and I was jerking my own load onto the old blanket when we heard a rumbling noise. There was no mistaking the sound. It was the sound of an approaching tank, coming from the north, the direction we were heading.

"Holy fuck!" yelled, "It's gotta be a German tank. Go! Go! Go!"

"In seconds, we were clambering up the tank and dropping down inside through the hatch, naked. I was the last to scramble up and in. I pulled the hatch closed behind me, and as it swung down, I got one quick glimpse of the distant, approaching tank with a star on its turret - an American tank. I guess Dave saw the star, too, because I heard him yell. 'Stand down! Stand down!'

"And then the hatch slammed down and the pain struck me like a blow. My fingers were still in the hatchway. The slamming hatch crushed the first two joints of each of them flat, bursting the skin, shattering the bones. I know I screamed, then passed out for a minute. I was told later I also let go of that four-man load of cum, all over Franco below me, but who still managed to clamber up beside me and open the hatch and free my mangled hand.

'The American tank pulled up alongside us as my buddies were hauling me out of the tank. They did not seem the slightest bit surprised at five drunk, naked Canadians clambering out of a tank, or that one of them was covered in cum from head to toe, or than another was bleeding profusely from a badly mangled hand.

"The American officer even joked 'Looks like a butt-fuck-party gone wrong, I'd guess.'

Franco, our first-aid man, managed to put a tourniquet on my wrist then cut off my useless, crushed fingers with his knife. He had given me a shot of morphine for the pain, but the wine I had consumed helped a lot, too.

"There's a US Field hospital about a mile along the road," the American officer told us. "You can't miss it."

"He and Dave managed to come to an agreement on what had happened here. In both their reports it would say that a German tank had fired on both the Allied tanks. The shell had caused a blast which slammed our hatch shut, cutting off my fingers. The enemy tank had been destroyed by Allied fire.

"We held a funeral service at the side of that road and buried my fingers, two rows of men - five naked Canadians and five fully-uniformed Americans. The Yanks helped us drink the last of the wine, and went on their way south. We went north to the field hospital.

"The Yank hospital couldn't do much more fore me. I was eventually shipped out back to England, where they grafted skin from my stomach over the ends of my wrecked fingers. Have you ever noticed the hair growing off the ends of my fingers? That's belly-hair!

"Well, that was the end of the war for me, but I a got a medal for that, and wear it to the Remembrance Day Parade every year. Imagine - a medal and a partial pension for getting tanked, getting your ass fucked, and smashing off your own fingers!"

"But now you understand why I don't tell anyone what really happened!"

Did you like this story? (The action, if not the sex, is completely true!) Leave your comments below: