Corp Green 2
Part 1 https://stumblingfillies.blogspot.com/2022/09/corporal-green.html
**Sunday, 3 September 1944, Valognes, France**
The alley in Valognes pulsed with a reckless, whiskey-fueled energy, the predawn light barely piercing the haze of Corporal Helen Kelly Green’s drunken revelry. Her body swayed atop Corporal Chuck Brown, her breaths ragged, punctuated by slurred giggles and the occasional hiccup. Privates Carter and Taylor, caught in the whirlwind of her abandon, flanked her, their hands greedy as she teased them with her lips, moving from one to the other with a sloppy, uninhibited grace. The whiskey bottle, half-empty, passed between them, its amber contents splashing onto the cobblestones, mingling with the musky scent of sweat and lust.
“Kelly, you’re a goddamn firecracker,” Chuck groaned, his hands gripping her hips as she rode him with a fervor that defied her intoxication. Her skirt, crumpled somewhere in the shadows, left her garters and stockings exposed, her white panties barely clinging to her thighs.
Carter, his eyes glassy with liquor, leaned in closer, his voice thick with desire. “Keep goin’, Corporal. You’re makin’ this war worth fightin’.” Taylor, too drunk to form a coherent sentence, grunted in agreement, guiding her hand to his throbbing length with a clumsy urgency.
Kelly’s head spun, the whiskey amplifying every sensation to a dizzying crescendo. She felt invincible, as if the war, the depot, and the Army’s rules were mere whispers in the wind. “This… this is *livin’*,” she slurred, her voice a garbled mix of defiance and delight as she tilted her head back, letting the last drops of whiskey sear her throat.
As the sun crept higher, the group’s fervor reached a fever pitch. Chuck’s stamina gave way, his groan echoing through the alley as he pulled Kelly closer, her body trembling through her own release. Carter and Taylor followed, their heavy breathing the only sound in the momentary stillness. Kelly collapsed against Chuck, her laughter a soft, drunken melody, her uniform in tatters—her blouse half-unbuttoned, her skirt a forgotten heap.
“Gotta… get back to quarters,” she mumbled, her legs wobbling like a newborn foal’s. The privates, grinning like schoolboys, helped her to her feet, their hands lingering with a boldness she didn’t mind in her haze. “You boys… pure trouble,” she teased, fumbling to pull her skirt back on, the fabric catching on her garters.
“Worth it, Corporal,” Taylor said with a wink, tucking in his shirt. Carter nodded, already stumbling toward the barracks. “See ya ‘round, Kelly.”
Chuck lingered, his eyes a mix of softness and hunger. “You’re somethin’ else, Kelly Green. Don’t get caught, alright?”
She smirked, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from her face. “Me? Never.” With a mock salute that nearly tipped her over, she staggered toward her quarters, the taste of whiskey, sweat, and men lingering on her lips.
Later that morning, back at the depot, Kelly’s head throbbed, but she wasn’t done. She slipped into the ladies’ latrine, retrieving the hidden crate of champagne. “Just one,” she muttered, echoing Private Taylor’s earlier words. The cork popped with a satisfying *thwack*, and she poured a generous glass, the bubbles tickling her nose as she downed it in three gulps. The buzz returned, warm and familiar, and she giggled, hiding the bottle back in the closet. “Orders are orders,” she told herself, justifying her indulgence as “disposal” of the contraband liquor.
By noon, she was back in the alley with a flask of cognac tucked into her garter, sharing swigs with a new group of soldiers—two mechanics and a radio operator—who’d heard rumors of her wild reputation. “To victory!” she toasted, her words slurring as she leaned into one of the mechanics, her hands wandering as freely as theirs. The cognac fueled a repeat of the morning’s antics, this time against a stack of crates, her skirt hiked up as she laughed through the haze.
---
**Spring 1945, Paris, France**
The war’s end was in sight, and Corporal Green’s nights at the Quartermaster depot grew less frenetic as the Allies surged into Germany. The crates of French liquor had vanished—some “disposed” by Kelly’s own hand, others shared with comrades who knew better than to ask questions. Her sharp mind and knack for getting things done earned her a promotion to Sergeant by May 1945, as Germany surrendered.
Sunday, 8 May 1945, Paris, France
The air in Paris was electric, the city pulsing with the joy of victory as Germany’s surrender rippled through the streets. Corporal Helen Kelly Green, now newly minted Sergeant Green, stepped into Le Chat Noir, a dimly lit bar in Montmartre, her sergeant’s stripes gleaming on her uniform. The date was 8 May 1945, VE Day, and the city was a kaleidoscope of celebration—laughter, music, and the clink of glasses echoing through the cobblestone alleys. Kelly’s skirt, still definitely shorter than regulation, hugged her curves, drawing stares she now met with a bold, confident grin. Her promotion, earned through sharp wit and relentless efficiency at the Quartermaster depot, felt like a crown, and tonight, she intended to wear it with abandon.
2000: The Sober Sergeant
At 2000, Kelly entered the bar with a clear head, her senses sharp despite the two glasses of red wine she’d sipped at a pre-celebration dinner with her unit. The wine left a faint warmth in her chest, a subtle buzz that softened the edges of the world without dulling her military bearing. The bar was a riot of sound—jazz horns blaring, French locals and Allied soldiers shouting toasts, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the sweet tang of spilled champagne. Kelly’s posture was crisp, her movements precise as she navigated the crowd, her polished shoes clicking on the wooden floor. Sergeant Green, she thought, savoring the title. Earned it. Now let’s celebrate it. Her skirt swished against her thighs, and she adjusted it absently, aware of the eyes on her but unperturbed. Let them look. I’m a goddamn sergeant.
She settled at a high table near the bar, surrounded by a mix of enlisted men and officers from her depot and beyond. Captain James Whitaker, a charming logistics officer with a roguish smile, raised a glass of champagne. “To Sergeant Green, the best damn quartermaster this side of the Seine!” The table erupted in cheers, and Kelly grinned, her discipline holding firm as she raised a glass of water—for now, she told herself, knowing the night was young.
2100: The First Glass
By 2100, the bar’s energy had infected Kelly. The crowd’s laughter, the jazz band’s frenetic rhythm, and the constant clink of glasses chipped away at her restraint. Whitaker slid a flute of champagne her way, the bubbles catching the light like tiny stars. “Come on, Sergeant, you can’t toast VE Day with water,” he teased, his eyes lingering on her skirt. Kelly hesitated, her training whispering duty, decorum, but the wine from dinner still hummed in her veins, and the champagne’s allure was irresistible. One glass. It’s a celebration. She took the flute, the cool glass slick against her fingers, and sipped. The champagne was crisp, effervescent, exploding on her tongue with a sweetness that made her sigh audibly. “Mm, that’s the stuff,” she said, her voice clear but her smile looser, the alcohol rekindling the warmth from earlier.
The first glass went down quickly, the bubbles tickling her nose, her head feeling lighter with each sip. She laughed louder at Whitaker’s jokes, her posture relaxing as she leaned back in her chair, her knees uncrossing. The bar’s smoky haze seemed to glow, the jazz notes sharper, more vibrant. This is what victory tastes like, she thought, her earlier discipline softening under the champagne’s spell. She accepted a second glass without hesitation, the alcohol’s warmth spreading through her chest, her cheeks flushing. Her skirt rode up slightly, and she didn’t bother to adjust it, the stares from the men around her now feeling like compliments rather than intrusions.
2200: Tipsy and Teasing
By 2200, Kelly was well into her third glass of champagne, the buzz now a steady hum that dulled her self-consciousness and amplified her confidence. Her laughter was louder, her gestures broader, as she bantered with Whitaker and a young lieutenant, Thomas Reed, who’d joined their table. Her words carried a faint slur, barely noticeable but enough to make her giggle when she caught it. “To new stripes and old tricks!” she toasted, spilling a bit of champagne on her blouse. The wet fabric clung to her chest, outlining her curves, and she laughed, unbuttoning the top button to “let it breathe,” her movements playful, provocative.
The bar felt like a dream, the lights haloing, the music a pulse in her blood. She leaned closer to Whitaker, her hand brushing his arm, her skirt hiking higher as she crossed her legs with exaggerated care. They’re all watching, she thought, a thrill running through her. The champagne had stripped away her earlier restraint, replacing it with a reckless charm. Reed offered her a glass of red wine, and she accepted, the rich, velvety liquid a contrast to the champagne’s fizz. The first sip was bold, coating her tongue, and she licked her lips, catching Reed’s gaze. “You boys trying to get me drunk?” she teased, her voice husky, her inhibitions fraying as the alcohol blended into a heady cocktail in her system.
2300: Drunk and Daring
By 2300, Kelly was undeniably drunk, the champagne and wine merging into a warm, disorienting fog. Her fourth glass of champagne sat half-empty, a fifth pressed into her hand by a grinning GI. Her head spun, the bar’s lights blurring into streaks, the jazz a chaotic symphony that matched her racing pulse. She stood to dance, her movements unsteady, her skirt riding up as she swayed to the music. Whitaker caught her as she stumbled, his hands lingering on her waist. “Easy, Sergeant,” he murmured, but his smile was hungry, and she matched it with one of her own.
“Easy’s no fun,” she slurred, her words thick, her tongue heavy. She drained the champagne, the bubbles burning her throat, and grabbed the red wine, spilling some on her wrist. She licked it off, her eyes locked on Whitaker’s, the act deliberate, seductive. Her military discipline was a distant memory, buried under the alcohol’s haze. The bar felt like an extension of her body—warm, alive, chaotic. She tugged at Whitaker’s tie, pulling him closer, her breath hot with wine. “To victory,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. Reed joined them, his hand on her thigh, and she giggled, her head lolling back as the room spun.
0000: Wasted in the Backroom
At midnight, Kelly was obliterated, her world a kaleidoscope of sensation. The bar’s noise was a dull roar, the lights a dizzying blur. She’d lost count of her drinks—champagne, wine, and a shot of cognac someone had pressed on her, its burn searing through her fog. Her blouse was half-unbuttoned, her skirt crumpled, her garters peeking out as she sprawled across Whitaker’s lap, her laughter loud and sloppy. “To new stripes!” she slurred, raising a bottle of red wine she’d commandeered, the liquid sloshing onto her chest. She didn’t care, her inhibitions gone, her body humming with reckless desire.
Whitaker and Reed guided her to a backroom, the jazz fading to a muffled thump. The room was small, cluttered with crates and a single table, the air thick with the scent of dust and liquor. Kelly stumbled, giggling as she fell against Whitaker, her hands fumbling with his uniform. “You’re cute, Captain,” she slurred, her voice barely coherent, her lips finding his in a messy kiss. Reed joined, his hands deftly undoing her blouse, her skirt discarded in a heap. The alcohol had erased all boundaries, her body a vessel of instinct and pleasure. She moaned as Whitaker’s lips trailed down her neck, Reed’s hands exploring her thighs, her mind lost in a drunken haze.
Their uniforms became a tangled mess on the floor, the three of them a blur of limbs and laughter. Kelly’s hands wandered, her lips alternating between Whitaker and Reed, her moans mingling with theirs. The cognac’s burn lingered in her throat, amplifying every touch, every sensation. She rode Whitaker on the table, her movements erratic but fervent, Reed’s hands guiding her hips. The room spun, her head a whirl of alcohol and ecstasy, her cries echoing as she reached a shuddering climax. The men followed, their groans a chorus in the cramped space, the war’s end celebrated in a haze of sweat, liquor, and lust.
0200: The Hungover Stumble
By 0200, Kelly woke slumped against a crate, her head pounding, her mouth dry as ash. The backroom was quiet, Whitaker and Reed gone, their uniforms presumably reclaimed. Her own was a wreck—blouse misbuttoned, skirt askew, one garter missing. She squinted at her watch, the numbers swimming, but she made out 0200. Christ, what a night, she thought, her thoughts sluggish, her body heavy with the aftermath of alcohol and sex. She stumbled to her feet, swaying, and fumbled her way back to the bar, the jazz now a dull throb in her temples.
The bartender, a grizzled Frenchman, handed her a shot of vodka with a knowing smirk. “Rough night, Sergeant?” She nodded, her voice hoarse. “The best kind.” She downed the vodka, her hands trembling, and staggered into the Paris night. The cool air was a shock, clearing her head just enough to navigate the streets to her quarters. Her sergeant’s stripes, slightly crooked, gleamed under the streetlights, a reminder of her triumph. Still got it, she thought, a drunken smile tugging at her lips as she collapsed into bed, the taste of champagne, wine, and men lingering like a victory march.
---
**1946–1950, Berlin, Germany**
Stationed in Berlin during the Marshall Plan’s reconstruction, Sergeant Helen Kelly Green found peacetime Army life a mixed bag. The discipline chafed, but the city’s raw energy suited her. Enrolled at Berlin Polytechnic’s nursing school, she balanced military duties with late-night study sessions, her desk littered with textbooks and empty schnapps bottles.
Dr. Jonathan Tuttle, her roguish mentor, became her partner in crime. “Kelly, you’ve got the hands of a surgeon and the liver of a sailor,” he’d say, passing her a mug of beer during their “study” sessions. One night, after a particularly grueling exam, they raided a stash of pilfered vodka from a Russian officer’s crate. “To knowledge!” Kelly toasted, her words slurring as she stumbled into Tuttle’s arms. The study room became a blur of spilled vodka, scattered notes, and tangled limbs, their laughter echoing through the halls. By morning, Kelly was back at her desk, hungover but undeterred, her notes smeared with vodka stains.
Friday, 13 September 1946, Berlin, Germany
The Berlin Polytechnic’s nursing school was a beacon of order amidst the rubble-strewn chaos of post-war Berlin, its halls echoing with the hum of reconstruction and ambition. Sergeant Helen Kelly Green, now a seasoned quartermaster and nursing student, pushed open the door to a cramped study room at 1900, her arms laden with textbooks and a thermos of coffee. Her uniform was crisp, her skirt still a defiant inch shorter than regulation, her sergeant’s stripes a proud badge of her climb through the ranks. The air was thick with the scent of old books, chalk dust, and the faint metallic tang of the city’s rebuilding efforts drifting through an open window. Dr. Jonathan Tuttle, her roguish mentor, lounged at a cluttered table, a pilfered bottle of Russian vodka glinting under the flickering fluorescent light. Tonight’s “study” session, ostensibly to review surgical techniques, promised to be anything but academic.
1900: The Focused Student
At 1900, Kelly was sharp, her mind honed from a day of lectures and military duties. The coffee in her thermos, strong and bitter, kept her alert, though a single glass of schnapps she’d sipped at lunch lingered as a faint warmth in her chest, a subtle buzz that made the room’s edges feel softer. Her posture was erect, her movements precise as she arranged her textbooks—Anatomy, Surgical Procedures, Pharmacology—on the table. Tuttle’s a genius, but a damn troublemaker, she thought, eyeing the vodka bottle with a mix of curiosity and caution. Her skirt hugged her thighs, and she adjusted it absently, aware of Tuttle’s gaze but focused on the task at hand. The study room was quiet, save for the distant clatter of Berlin’s reconstruction and the occasional creak of the wooden chair under her.
Tuttle grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Ready to dissect the mysteries of the human body, Sergeant Green?” he asked, his tone teasing. Kelly smirked, flipping open her anatomy text. “Only if you keep up, Doc.” Her voice was clear, her wit sharp, her military discipline holding firm as she began reviewing notes on suturing techniques. The vodka bottle sat untouched, a silent temptation in the room’s dim light.
2000: The First Sip
By 2000, the session had veered from sutures to Tuttle’s war stories, his animated gestures knocking papers askew. Kelly’s coffee was gone, and the schnapps’ buzz had faded, leaving her restless. The room felt smaller, the air warmer, the vodka’s presence louder. Tuttle noticed her glance at the bottle and chuckled. “Study’s better with a little Russian courage, don’t you think?” He poured two mugs of vodka, the clear liquid sloshing with a sharp, clean scent that stung her nose. Kelly hesitated, her training whispering focus, discipline, but the day’s grind and Tuttle’s infectious charm wore her down. One sip. It’s just study fuel.
She took the mug, the vodka’s chill contrasting the room’s warmth, and sipped. The burn was immediate, raw and fiery, searing her throat and settling in her stomach like a smoldering coal. Her eyes watered, but she grinned, the alcohol reigniting the schnapps’ warmth, her head lightening. “Jesus, Doc, this stuff could strip paint,” she said, her voice steady but her smile looser. The vodka’s heat spread through her, softening her posture as she leaned back, her knees uncrossing. The textbook blurred slightly, Tuttle’s voice a warm hum, and she laughed louder at his quips, the room’s fluorescent light haloing like a Berlin streetlamp.
2100: Tipsy and Playful
By 2100, Kelly was on her second mug of vodka, the alcohol weaving a warm, fuzzy tapestry through her senses. Her laughter came easier, her words tinged with a faint slur she tried to mask with a cough. The study room felt alive, the textbooks forgotten as she and Tuttle traded barbs about Army bureaucracy and Berlin’s underground bars. Her skirt rode up as she shifted, and she didn’t bother to adjust it, Tuttle’s appreciative glance sparking a thrill. Let him look, she thought, the vodka dulling her self-consciousness, amplifying her confidence. Her notes were a mess, ink smudged from a careless hand, but she didn’t care.
Tuttle poured another round, the vodka splashing onto the table, its sharp scent mingling with the room’s musty air. Kelly downed it in two gulps, the burn less shocking now, her head swimming with a pleasant haze. “To knowledge!” she toasted, her voice husky, her mug raised high. The alcohol made her bold, her gestures broader as she leaned closer to Tuttle, her hand brushing his arm. The room spun slightly, the fluorescent light a soft glow, the city’s distant clatter a faint drumbeat. Her military discipline was fraying, replaced by a reckless charm that felt like her old self in Valognes. “You’re trouble, Doc,” she slurred, her eyes locking on his, her lips curling into a provocative smile.
2200: Drunk and Daring
By 2200, Kelly was undeniably drunk, her third and fourth mugs of vodka blurring the world into a warm, chaotic dream. Her speech was thick, her words tumbling over each other as she tried to explain a surgical knot, her hands fumbling with an imaginary needle. The room’s edges were soft, the textbooks a colorful blur, Tuttle’s laughter a melody that matched her racing pulse. She stood to demonstrate a technique, her movements unsteady, her skirt hiking higher as she swayed. Tuttle caught her as she stumbled, his hands on her waist, his touch electric through her vodka-soaked haze.
“Careful, Sergeant,” he murmured, but his grin was hungry, and Kelly matched it, her inhibitions gone. “Careful’s no fun,” she slurred, her voice barely coherent as she tugged at his tie, pulling him closer. She grabbed the vodka bottle, taking a swig straight from it, the liquid spilling down her chin, staining her blouse. She licked her lips, the act deliberate, her eyes burning into Tuttle’s. The room felt like an extension of her body—warm, alive, pulsing with possibility. Her fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons, her laughter loud and sloppy as she spilled more vodka, the scent sharp in the air.
2300: Wasted in the Study Room
At 2300, Kelly was obliterated, the vodka stripping away all traces of her military discipline. The study room was a haze of sensation, the fluorescent light a dizzying blur, Tuttle’s voice a low, seductive hum. Her blouse was half-unbuttoned, her skirt crumpled at her waist, her garters peeking out as she sprawled across the table, papers scattering like confetti. “To… to us!” she slurred, raising the bottle, the vodka sloshing onto her chest. She giggled, her head lolling as Tuttle’s hands roamed, his lips finding hers in a messy, heated kiss.
The textbooks were forgotten, the study room a den of debauchery. Kelly’s hands tugged at Tuttle’s belt, her movements erratic but fervent, her moans mingling with his as they tangled on the table. Her skirt was discarded, her blouse a crumpled heap, the vodka’s burn amplifying every touch. She rode him with abandon, her body a whirlwind of instinct and pleasure, the room spinning as she cried out, her climax a shuddering release. Tuttle followed, his groans echoing in the cramped space, their laughter a drunken symphony. The vodka bottle tipped over, its contents pooling on the floor, a fitting end to their chaotic “study.”
0100: The Hungover Dawn
Kelly woke at 0100, slumped in a chair, her head pounding, her mouth dry as Berlin’s dusty streets. The study room was a wreck—papers strewn, vodka staining the table, her uniform in disarray. Her skirt was back on, crooked, one button missing from her blouse. She squinted at her watch, the numbers swimming, but she made out 0100. Christ, what a mess, she thought, her thoughts sluggish, her body heavy with the aftermath of alcohol and sex. Tuttle was gone, likely slipped out to avoid prying eyes, leaving her to face the wreckage alone.
She stumbled to her feet, swaying, and gathered her textbooks, their pages smeared with vodka stains. Her head throbbed, but a faint smile tugged at her lips. Still got it, she thought, her rebellious spirit intact despite the hangover. She staggered into the hall, the cool night air a shock as she made her way to her quarters. Her sergeant’s stripes, slightly askew, gleamed under the streetlights, a reminder of her dual life—disciplined soldier by day, untamed reveler by night. The taste of vodka and Tuttle lingered, a badge of her wild heart in Berlin’s fractured world.
Below is an expanded narrative of Sergeant Helen Kelly Green’s weekend escapade in a German beer garden in 1948, set in Berlin, Germany, during the Marshall Plan’s reconstruction. This version incorporates a German girl in a full, sexy Oktoberfest-style outfit, and both women get progressively drunk together, sharing schnapps and beer. The narrative delves into Kelly’s progression from sobriety to drunkenness, capturing her psychological and physical states, sensory experiences, and the erosion of her inhibitions as she indulges alongside her new companion. The tone aligns with the provided story, emphasizing Kelly’s sharp wit, rebellious spirit, and the chaotic interplay between her military discipline and alcohol-fueled abandon in the vibrant, post-war Berlin setting. The scene unfolds in a lively beer garden, with schnapps and beer driving their descent into intoxication, culminating in a heated, communal encounter that echoes Kelly’s earlier escapades.
---
**Saturday, 14 August 1948, Berlin, Germany**
The *Biergarten am Schloss* near Charlottenburg Palace thrummed with life in the warm Berlin summer of 1948, its lanterns casting a golden glow over long wooden tables packed with locals and GIs. Sergeant Helen Kelly Green, off-duty and free from her Army uniform, strutted into the beer garden at 1900, her red, form-fitting American dress—a daring number with a plunging neckline and a hem skimming above her knees—hugging her curves. The silky fabric shimmered under the evening light, drawing stares that she met with a bold, confident grin. Tonight, she was no sergeant, just Kelly, ready to soak in Berlin’s raw, post-war energy. At a nearby table, a German girl named Liesl, dressed in a sexy Oktoberfest-style outfit—a tight, low-cut dirndl with a corset that cinched her waist and a skirt that flared just short enough to tease—caught Kelly’s eye. Liesl’s blonde braids bounced as she laughed, her stein raised high, her presence a magnet for attention.
**1900: The Confident Civilian**
At 1900, Kelly was sharp, her senses honed despite a single glass of wine from an early dinner, its faint warmth a subtle buzz that made the beer garden’s chaos feel vibrant. The air was thick with the yeasty scent of beer, the smoky tang of grilled bratwurst, and the sweet hum of an accordion band playing a lively polka. Her dress swished against her thighs, a liberating contrast to her starched uniform, making her feel feminine, untamed. *No stripes tonight, just me,* she thought, her lips curling into a smirk. Liesl, spotting Kelly’s entrance, waved her over, her dirndl’s corset accentuating her curves as she leaned forward. “You look like trouble, Amerikanerin!” she called in accented English, her blue eyes sparkling.
Kelly joined Liesl’s table, alongside Private First Class Eddie Malone, a cocky MP, and Hans, a German student from the polytechnic. The group’s laughter was infectious, and Kelly’s posture was relaxed but poised, her movements precise as she accepted a stein of beer. The cool foam kissed her lips, its crisp, malty taste grounding her. Liesl raised her own stein, her braids swaying. “To new friends!” she toasted, her voice warm. Kelly clinked her stein, sipping lightly, her military discipline a quiet undercurrent. *Keep it sharp for now,* she told herself, though Liesl’s playful energy and the garden’s festive hum tugged at her restraint.
**2000: The First Schnapps**
By 2000, the beer garden’s energy had Kelly and Liesl in its grip. The polka’s rhythm, the clink of steins, and the crowd’s raucous toasts chipped away at their composure. Malone slid two shots of peach schnapps across the table, the clear liquid gleaming in the lantern light. “Ladies, you can’t do Berlin without this,” he teased, his eyes lingering on Kelly’s neckline and Liesl’s corset. Kelly hesitated, her training whispering *pace yourself*, but Liesl’s enthusiastic “Prost!” and the wine’s lingering buzz nudged her forward. “One shot, Liesl, then you’re keeping up with me,” Kelly challenged, her voice clear but playful.
They clinked glasses, the schnapps’ sweet, fruity scent hitting their noses. Kelly knocked it back, the burn sharp and fiery, searing her throat and igniting a warmth that spread to her fingertips. Liesl followed, coughing but grinning, her cheeks flushing. “Gott, that’s strong!” she laughed, her accent thicker. Kelly’s head lightened, the alcohol blending with the wine, her laughter louder. “Told you, German girl, I’m no lightweight,” she said, her smile looser, the beer garden’s lanterns glowing brighter, the polka pulsing in her blood. Liesl leaned closer, her dirndl’s laces straining, and poured another round. They downed it, the burn less shocking, their giggles mingling as the alcohol softened their edges.
**2100: Tipsy and Flirtatious**
By 2100, Kelly and Liesl were tipsy, their second and third shots of schnapps and second steins of beer weaving a warm, fuzzy haze. Their laughter was louder, their words tinged with faint slurs they masked with giggles. The garden felt like a carnival, the lanterns casting a golden glow over Kelly’s red dress and Liesl’s dirndl, the crowd’s noise a vibrant hum. They bantered with Malone and Hans, Kelly’s hand brushing Liesl’s arm as she teased her about German drinking stamina. “You’re tough, Liesl, but I’ve outdrunk MPs,” Kelly said, her voice husky, her eyes sparkling. Liesl winked, her braids bouncing. “We’ll see, Amerikanerin!”
Another shot of apple schnapps appeared, its sharp sweetness cutting through the beer’s maltiness. They downed it, the burn fueling their buzz, their heads swimming. Kelly’s dress rode up as she shifted, unbothered by the stares it drew, while Liesl’s corset loosened slightly, her cleavage drawing Hans’s gaze. They stood to dance, their movements unsteady but graceful, Kelly’s dress swirling, Liesl’s skirt flaring. Malone caught Kelly as she stumbled, his hands on her waist, while Hans steadied Liesl, their laughter sloppy but defiant. “You’re trouble, both of you,” Malone said, and Kelly grinned, the alcohol dulling her self-consciousness, amplifying her confidence. “Trouble’s my middle name,” she slurred, winking at Liesl, who giggled, spilling beer on her dirndl.
**2200: Drunk and Daring**
By 2200, Kelly and Liesl were drunk, their fourth and fifth shots of schnapps and third steins of beer blurring the world into a chaotic, golden dream. Their speech was thick, their words tumbling as they tried to sing along to the polka, their hands gesturing wildly, knocking over empty steins. The garden’s lanterns spun, the music a frenetic pulse, the crowd’s laughter a melody matching their racing hearts. Kelly swayed, her dress hiking higher, the silky fabric clinging to her sweat-damp skin. Liesl’s dirndl was askew, one lace undone, her skirt riding up to reveal thigh-high stockings. They danced together, their bodies brushing, their giggles loud and uninhibited.
“Another!” Liesl slurred, grabbing a schnapps bottle and pouring messily, the liquid spilling onto the table. They chugged their beers, foam dripping down their chins, staining Kelly’s dress and Liesl’s corset. The alcohol’s heat was a fire in their veins, their military and civilian restraints buried under the schnapps’ sweet burn and the beer’s heavy warmth. Kelly tugged at Malone’s shirt, her fingers fumbling, while Liesl pulled Hans closer, her lips brushing his ear. “To Berlin!” Kelly shouted, her voice barely coherent, raising the schnapps bottle. Liesl echoed her, their eyes locking in drunken camaraderie, their bodies swaying as the garden spun, a haze of light and sound.
**2300: Wasted in the Shadows**
At 2300, Kelly and Liesl were obliterated, the schnapps and beer stripping away all restraint. The beer garden was a kaleidoscope, the lanterns a dizzying blur, the polka a chaotic thrum in their temples. Kelly’s dress was askew, one strap slipping, the hem bunched at her hips, exposing her garters. Liesl’s dirndl was half-unlaced, her corset loose, her skirt crumpled. They sprawled across Malone and Hans on a bench near the garden’s edge, a schnapps bottle passing between them, its contents sloshing onto their skin. “To us!” Kelly slurred, her laughter messy, the liquid staining her dress. Liesl giggled, spilling schnapps on her chest, the sticky sweetness mixing with her sweat.
The group stumbled to a shadowed corner behind barrels, the music muffled but the garden’s energy pulsing. The air was cooler, heavy with spilled beer and pine. Kelly fell against Malone, her hands tugging at his belt, her lips finding his in a sloppy kiss. Liesl, equally drunk, pressed against Hans, her braids unraveling as she kissed him, her hands bold. The women’s eyes met, a shared spark of rebellion, and they laughed, their bodies brushing as they pulled Malone and Hans into a tangled dance of desire. Kelly’s dress was discarded, Liesl’s dirndl a crumpled heap, their clothes a mess among the barrels. The schnapps bottle fell, its contents pooling, but they were too far gone to care. Kelly straddled Malone, Liesl rode Hans, their moans blending with drunken giggles, the alcohol amplifying every touch into a dizzying crescendo. The night was a blur of sweat, liquor, and lust, their cries echoing in the shadows.
**0100: The Hungover Dawn**
Kelly woke at 0100, slumped against a barrel beside Liesl, their heads pounding, their mouths dry as Berlin’s dusty streets. The beer garden was quieter, the lanterns dim, the polka replaced by soft chatter. Kelly’s dress was back on, crooked, one strap torn, schnapps and beer stains marring the red fabric. Liesl’s dirndl was half-laced, her skirt askew, her braids undone. They squinted at Kelly’s watch, the numbers swimming, but they made out 0100. “Gott, what a night,” Liesl mumbled, her accent thick, her voice hoarse. Kelly nodded, her thoughts sluggish, her body heavy with the aftermath of alcohol and sex. Malone and Hans were gone, slipped back to the crowd, leaving the women to face the wreckage.
They stumbled to their feet, swaying, Kelly smoothing her dress, Liesl fumbling with her corset. Their laughter was weak but defiant, a shared bond in their drunken chaos. “You’re alright, Liesl,” Kelly slurred, her smile crooked. “You too, Amerikanerin,” Liesl replied, winking. They staggered through the garden, the cool night air a shock, and parted with a sloppy hug, promising to meet again. Kelly made her way to her quarters, the city’s lights gleaming, a reminder of Berlin’s resilience and her own. The taste of schnapps, beer, and their wild night lingered, a badge of her untamed heart.
**Progression Analysis**
- **1900 (Sober):** Kelly is confident, sharp, her mind clear despite a faint wine buzz. Her dress boosts her femininity, but her discipline keeps her poised. Liesl is lively, matching Kelly’s energy.
- **2000 (Tipsy):** Schnapps reignites their buzz, loosening their laughter and posture. They embrace stares, their restraint softening, their camaraderie growing.
- **2100 (Buzzed):** Multiple schnapps and beers make them flirtatious, their words slurring, their movements bolder. Their outfits become tools of seduction, inhibitions fraying.
- **2200 (Drunk):** The alcohol blurs their world, their speech thick, their actions reckless. They’re provocative, their restraints nearly gone, bonded by drunken rebellion.
- **2300 (Wasted):** Fully intoxicated, their discipline is buried, their actions instinctive. The garden spins, their bodies acting on desire, their minds a chaotic whirl.
- **0100 (Hungover):** Waking disoriented, their heads pound, their bodies sluggish. Still intoxicated, they’re functional enough to gather themselves, their night a hazy triumph.
By 1950, Kelly graduated with honors, her nursing degree a hard-won badge of focus. Her dedication earned her a promotion to 1st Lieutenant just as the Korean War erupted. Assigned to the 4077th M*A*S*H, she packed her bags, a flask of cognac tucked among her uniforms.
---
**July 1950, 4077th M*A*S*H, Korea**
The Korean summer was a furnace, the M*A*S*H unit thick with the stench of blood and antiseptic. 1st Lt. Helen Kelly Green, now Nurse Green, navigated the chaos with the same swagger she’d honed in Valognes. Her nursing skills were unmatched, but her off-duty exploits were the stuff of legend. After a 12-hour shift in the OR, she stumbled into the Swamp, the surgeons’ tent, a martini in hand and a gleam in her eye.
“Oh, this iz *sin-sation’al*,” Kelly slurred, downing her third martini, the gin burning like a lover’s kiss. Her nurse’s uniform was unbuttoned just enough to hint at her rebellious past, her lips curled in a defiant smile.
Captain Hawkeye Pierce, the unit’s resident rogue, leaned back on his cot, his grin as sharp as a scalpel. “You’re my kind of girl, Helen,” he said, emphasizing her first name with a teasing lilt. “Drunk, fearless, and definitely trouble.”
“Prob’ly?” Kelly shot back, her words slurring but her wit razor-sharp. She leaned closer, her breath warm with gin. “You’re cute, Hawkeye, but I’ve tamed worse than you in a French alley.”
Hawkeye laughed, raising his glass. “To Nurse Green, then. Keeping the 4077th alive—and a lot buzzed.”
Their glasses clinked, her laughter ringing out like a battle cry. Later that night, the Swamp became a den of debauchery. Kelly, martini in one hand, tugged Hawkeye into a cot, her uniform half-off before the second drink hit. Major Frank Burns, ever the prude, walked in, only to freeze as Kelly, giggling, pulled him into the fray. “Loosen up, Frank!” she slurred, spilling gin on his pristine uniform as she kissed him, her hands deftly undoing his belt. Hawkeye joined in, and the tent filled with moans and laughter, the war outside forgotten for a few drunken hours.
By morning, Kelly was back in the OR, her hands steady despite the hangover, her eyes still sparkling with mischief. From Valognes to Korea, Helen Kelly Green lived on the edge—war, liquor, and love her constant companions, each met with her defiant, drunken smile.
Friday, 28 July 1950, 4077th MAS*H, Korea
The Korean summer of 1950 was a sweltering furnace, the 4077th MAS*H unit steeped in the stench of blood, antiseptic, and desperation. 1st Lieutenant Helen Kelly Green, now Nurse Green, slipped into the supply tent at 2100, her nurse’s uniform slightly unbuttoned at the collar, a concession to the oppressive heat. The tent was a cramped maze of crates, medical supplies, and a makeshift bar rigged by Captain Benjamin “Hawkeye” Pierce, the unit’s resident rogue surgeon. The air was thick with the tang of gin, canvas, and the faint metallic scent of surgical tools stored nearby. Tonight, after a grueling 12-hour shift in the OR, Kelly was ready to unwind, her military discipline fraying under the weight of war’s chaos. Hawkeye, lounging against a crate with a martini in hand, greeted her with a grin that promised trouble. “Nurse Green, welcome to my office,” he said, his voice a teasing lilt.
2100: The Steady Nurse
At 2100, Kelly was clear-headed, her senses sharp despite a single glass of wine from dinner, its faint warmth a subtle buzz that softened the edges of the tent’s stark reality. The OR’s chaos—screams, blood, and the relentless pace—still lingered in her mind, but her hands were steady, her posture erect as she navigated the cluttered tent. Her uniform clung to her sweat-damp skin, the white fabric a stark contrast to the muddy chaos outside. Hawkeye’s trouble, but he’s my kind of trouble, she thought, her lips curling into a confident smirk. The tent’s dim lantern cast flickering shadows, the gin’s sharp scent cutting through the air. She adjusted her cap, her movements precise, her nursing expertise a quiet anchor in the war’s storm.
Hawkeye raised a martini glass, the liquid glinting. “To surviving another day in this hellhole,” he toasted, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Kelly nodded, accepting a glass but sipping cautiously, the gin’s bite tempered by vermouth, its coolness a relief against the heat. “To survival,” she echoed, her voice clear, her wit sharp. The martini’s warmth blended with the wine’s buzz, but her military discipline held firm, her focus on Hawkeye’s banter rather than the liquor’s pull.
2200: The First Martini’s Glow
By 2200, the tent’s intimacy and Hawkeye’s relentless charm had Kelly loosening up. The first martini was gone, its gin fueling a warm glow that spread through her chest. Hawkeye mixed another, his hands deft with the shaker, the gin’s sharp scent filling the air. “You’re wasting your talents on nursing, Green. You’d make a hell of a bartender,” he teased, sliding the glass her way. Kelly hesitated, her training whispering stay sharp, but the war’s weight and Hawkeye’s grin nudged her forward. One more. It’s just us. She took the glass, the cool rim brushing her lips, and sipped deeply. The gin burned, clean and fierce, igniting a fire that mingled with the wine’s lingering warmth.
Her laughter came easier, her posture relaxing as she leaned against a crate, her uniform’s top button undone, revealing a hint of cleavage. The tent felt smaller, the lantern’s glow softer, Hawkeye’s voice a warm hum that matched the gin’s buzz. “This is sin-sational,” she said, her voice clear but her smile looser, the martini’s heat making her head light. She crossed her legs, her skirt riding up slightly, unbothered by Hawkeye’s appreciative glance. The alcohol dulled her self-consciousness, amplifying her confidence, and she leaned closer, her hand brushing his arm. “You’re not bad yourself, Pierce,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
2300: Tipsy and Teasing
By 2300, Kelly was tipsy, her second and third martinis weaving a fuzzy haze through her senses. Her laughter was louder, her words tinged with a faint slur she masked with a giggle. The tent was a cocoon of warmth, the lantern’s light haloing, the gin’s scent a constant undercurrent. She bantered with Hawkeye, her gestures broader, her hands gesturing wildly as she recounted a story from Berlin. “You should’ve seen me outdrink an MP!” she said, her voice husky, her cap askew. Hawkeye grinned, pouring another martini, the liquid sloshing. “I’d pay to see that, Green.”
She downed the martini, the gin’s burn less shocking now, her head swimming as the alcohol deepened her buzz. Her uniform was unbuttoned further, the white fabric clinging to her curves, and she didn’t care, Hawkeye’s gaze a thrill rather than a burden. She stood to grab a bottle of gin from a crate, her movements unsteady, her skirt hiking higher. Hawkeye caught her as she stumbled, his hands on her waist, his touch electric through her gin-soaked haze. “Easy, Lieutenant,” he murmured, but his grin was hungry, and she matched it, her inhibitions fraying. “Easy’s no fun,” she slurred, tugging at his shirt, her lips curling into a provocative smile.
0000: Drunk and Daring
By 0000, Kelly was drunk, her fourth and fifth martinis blurring the world into a warm, chaotic dream. Her speech was thick, her words tumbling as she tried to explain a surgical technique, her hands fumbling with an imaginary scalpel. The tent’s lantern spun, the gin’s sharp scent a pulse in her blood, Hawkeye’s laughter a melody matching her racing heart. She swayed, her uniform half-unbuttoned, her skirt crumpled at her hips, exposing her garters. “Another!” she slurred, grabbing the gin bottle and taking a swig straight from it, the liquid spilling down her chin, staining her uniform. The burn was fierce, amplifying her recklessness, her military discipline buried under the alcohol’s haze.
Hawkeye pulled her close, his hands bold on her hips, and she laughed, her body pressing against his, her lips finding his in a sloppy, heated kiss. “You’re my kind of trouble, Pierce,” she whispered, her voice barely coherent, her eyes burning with desire. The tent felt like an extension of her body—warm, alive, pulsing with possibility. Her hands tugged at his belt, her movements erratic but fervent, her moans mingling with his as they tangled on a pile of blankets among the crates. The gin’s fire fueled every touch, her body a vessel of instinct and pleasure.
0100: Wasted in the Supply Tent
At 0100, Kelly was obliterated, the martinis stripping away all restraint. The tent was a kaleidoscope of sensation, the lantern a dizzying blur, Hawkeye’s voice a low, seductive hum. Her uniform was a crumpled heap, her cap lost among the crates, her body bare save for her garters and dog tags. She sprawled across Hawkeye on the blankets, a martini glass tipped over, its contents pooling on the canvas floor. “To us!” she slurred, her laughter messy, the gin’s burn lingering in her throat. Hawkeye’s hands roamed, his lips trailing down her neck, and she moaned, her body arching, the alcohol amplifying every touch into a crescendo.
Their clothes were a tangled mess, the tent a den of debauchery. Kelly rode Hawkeye with abandon, her movements wild, her cries echoing in the cramped space. The gin’s haze erased the war outside, her mind lost in a whirl of pleasure and chaos. Hawkeye’s groans blended with her moans, their laughter a drunken symphony as they reached a shuddering climax, the tent’s canvas walls trembling with their fervor. The gin bottle fell, its contents spilling, a fitting end to their chaotic night.
0300: The Hungover Dawn
Kelly woke at 0300, slumped against a crate, her head pounding, her mouth dry as the Korean dust. The tent was quiet, the lantern dim, the gin’s scent heavy in the air. Her uniform was back on, misbuttoned, her skirt askew, gin stains marring the white fabric. She squinted at her watch, the numbers swimming, but she made out 0300. Christ, what a night, she thought, her thoughts sluggish, her body heavy with the aftermath of alcohol and sex. Hawkeye was gone, likely slipped back to the Swamp to avoid suspicion, leaving her to face the wreckage alone.
She stumbled to her feet, swaying, and smoothed her uniform, her hands trembling. Her head throbbed, but a faint smile tugged at her lips. Still got it, she thought, her rebellious spirit intact despite the hangover. She staggered out of the tent, the cool night air a shock against her sweat-damp skin. The camp was silent, the stars above a stark contrast to the war’s chaos. Her dog tags clinked, a reminder of her dual life—nurse by day, untamed reveler by night. The taste of gin and Hawkeye lingered, a badge of her wild heart in the heart of Korea.
Monday, 4 September 1950, Rosie’s Bar, Near 4077th MAS*H, Korea
The Korean summer of 1950 clung to the air like a damp shroud, but Rosie’s Bar, a ramshackle haven near the 4077th MAS*H, buzzed with defiant life on Labor Day. 1st Lieutenant Helen Kelly Green, now Nurse Green, stepped into the bar at 1900, her nurse’s uniform swapped for a civilian dress—a tight, emerald-green number with a low neckline and a hem that teased just above her knees, a rare indulgence that screamed rebellion against the war’s grim reality. The bar was a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, and a jukebox blaring American jazz, the air thick with cigarette smoke, sweat, and the sharp tang of soju. Major Margaret “Hot Lips” Houlihan, the 4077th’s head nurse, sat at a corner table, her uniform slightly unbuttoned, her blonde hair loose. Beside her was Soo-jin, a striking Korean girl in a vibrant hanbok-style dress, its red silk cinched tight to accentuate her curves, the short hem daring for the time. Tonight, after a brutal week in the OR, the three women were ready to drown the war in liquor.
1900: The Steady Nurse
At 1900, Kelly was clear-headed, her senses sharp despite a glass of wine from an early Labor Day dinner, its faint warmth a subtle buzz that softened the bar’s chaotic edges. The OR’s relentless pace—blood, screams, and the weight of lives saved or lost—lingered in her mind, but her posture was erect, her movements precise as she joined Margaret and Soo-jin. Her dress hugged her curves, drawing stares she met with a confident grin. No salutes tonight, just us, she thought, savoring the freedom of civilian clothes. The bar’s smoky haze and jazz notes were a stark contrast to the MAS*H’s antiseptic sterility, and Kelly felt alive, her nursing expertise a quiet anchor.
Margaret raised a glass of soju, her usual stiffness softened by the holiday. “To Labor Day, and to hell with this war,” she toasted, her voice firm but warm. Soo-jin, her dark eyes sparkling, echoed in accented English, “To freedom!” Kelly clinked her beer stein, sipping lightly, the crisp, malty taste grounding her. “To us bad girls,” she added, her voice clear, her wit sharp. The beer’s coolness was a relief against the humid air, and her military discipline held firm, though Soo-jin’s playful smile and Margaret’s rare looseness tugged at her restraint.
2000: The First Soju Shot
By 2000, Rosie’s Bar had Kelly, Margaret, and Soo-jin in its grip. The jukebox’s jazz, the crowd’s raucous toasts, and the clatter of glasses chipped away at their composure. Soo-jin, grinning, poured three shots of soju, the clear liquid glinting in the bar’s dim light. “You Americans drink weak beer. Try this!” she teased, her hanbok’s red silk catching the light. Kelly hesitated, her training whispering stay sharp, but the wine’s buzz and the bar’s festive chaos nudged her forward. “Alright, Soo-jin, let’s see if you can keep up,” she challenged, winking at Margaret, who smirked, already on her second beer.
They clinked glasses, the soju’s sharp, clean scent hitting their noses. Kelly knocked it back, the burn fierce and fiery, searing her throat and igniting a warmth that spread to her fingertips. Margaret coughed, her cheeks flushing, while Soo-jin laughed, her shot down smoothly. “Strong, yes?” Soo-jin said, pouring another. Kelly’s head lightened, the alcohol blending with the wine, her laughter louder. “Damn, that’s got a kick!” she said, her smile looser, the bar’s lights glowing brighter, the jazz pulsing in her blood. Margaret leaned closer, her uniform unbuttoned further, while Soo-jin’s hanbok slipped slightly, revealing a glimpse of thigh. They downed the second shot, the burn less shocking, their giggles mingling as the alcohol softened their edges.
2100: Tipsy and Flirtatious
By 2100, the trio was tipsy, their second and third soju shots and second beers weaving a warm, fuzzy haze. Their laughter was louder, their words tinged with faint slurs they masked with giggles. The bar felt like a carnival, the jukebox’s notes vibrant, the crowd’s noise a hum matching their racing pulses. Kelly bantered with Margaret about Army red tape, her hand brushing Soo-jin’s arm as she teased her about Korean drinking prowess. “You’re tough, Soo-jin, but I’ve outdrunk MPs,” Kelly said, her voice husky, her eyes sparkling. Margaret, loosening up, chuckled. “You’re both trouble,” she said, her usual primness fading.
Another shot of soju appeared, its sharp sweetness cutting through the beer’s maltiness. They downed it, the burn fueling their buzz, their heads swimming. Kelly’s dress rode up as she shifted, unbothered by the stares, while Margaret’s uniform gaped, revealing cleavage, and Soo-jin’s hanbok slipped further, her thigh exposed. They stood to dance to the jazz, their movements unsteady but graceful, Kelly’s dress swirling, Soo-jin’s hanbok flaring, Margaret swaying with rare abandon. A GI caught Kelly as she stumbled, his hands lingering, while Soo-jin steadied Margaret, their laughter sloppy but defiant. “We’re the queens of this bar,” Kelly slurred, winking at Soo-jin, who giggled, spilling beer on her hanbok.
2200: Drunk and Daring
By 2200, Kelly, Margaret, and Soo-jin were drunk, their fourth and fifth soju shots and third beers blurring the world into a chaotic dream. Their speech was thick, their words tumbling as they tried to sing along to the jukebox, their hands gesturing wildly, knocking over empty glasses. The bar’s lights spun, the jazz a frenetic pulse, the crowd’s laughter a melody matching their racing hearts. Kelly swayed, her dress hiking higher, the emerald fabric clinging to her sweat-damp skin. Margaret’s uniform was half-unbuttoned, her hair disheveled, while Soo-jin’s hanbok was askew, its silk crumpled. They danced together, their bodies brushing, their giggles loud and uninhibited.
“Another!” Soo-jin slurred, grabbing a soju bottle and pouring messily, the liquid spilling onto the table. They chugged their beers, foam dripping down their chins, staining Kelly’s dress, Margaret’s uniform, and Soo-jin’s hanbok. The alcohol’s heat was a fire in their veins, their military and cultural restraints buried under the soju’s sharp burn and the beer’s heavy warmth. Kelly tugged at Margaret’s collar, her fingers fumbling, while Soo-jin pulled Kelly closer, her lips brushing her ear. “To us!” Kelly shouted, her voice barely coherent, raising the soju bottle. Margaret and Soo-jin echoed her, their eyes locking in drunken camaraderie, their bodies swaying as the bar spun, a haze of light and sound.
2300: Wasted in the Backroom
At 2300, the trio was obliterated, the soju and beer stripping away all restraint. Rosie’s Bar was a kaleidoscope, the lights a dizzying blur, the jazz a chaotic thrum in their temples. Kelly’s dress was askew, one strap slipping, the hem bunched at her hips, exposing her garters. Margaret’s uniform was a mess, buttons undone, her bra visible, while Soo-jin’s hanbok was half-untied, its silk slipping to reveal her curves. They sprawled across a bench in a dimly lit backroom, a soju bottle passing between them, its contents sloshing onto their skin. “To freedom!” Kelly slurred, her laughter messy, the liquid staining her dress. Margaret giggled, spilling soju on her chest, while Soo-jin laughed, her hanbok sticky with beer.
The backroom was cramped, filled with crates and the scent of spilled liquor. Kelly fell against Margaret, her hands tugging at her uniform, her lips finding hers in a sloppy, heated kiss. Soo-jin joined, her hands bold on Kelly’s thighs, her lips brushing Margaret’s neck. The women’s eyes met, a shared spark of rebellion, and they laughed, their bodies tangling as they pulled each other closer. Their clothes were a crumpled heap—Kelly’s dress, Margaret’s uniform, Soo-jin’s hanbok—among the crates. The soju bottle fell, its contents pooling, but they were too far gone to care. Kelly straddled Margaret, Soo-jin’s hands guiding her, their moans blending with drunken giggles, the alcohol amplifying every touch into a crescendo. The backroom echoed with their cries, a blur of sweat, liquor, and lust, the war outside forgotten in their chaotic revelry.
0100: The Hungover Dawn
Kelly woke at 0100, slumped against a crate beside Margaret and Soo-jin, their heads pounding, their mouths dry as Korean dust. The backroom was quiet, the bar’s noise muffled, the jukebox silent. Kelly’s dress was back on, crooked, one strap torn, soju and beer stains marring the emerald fabric. Margaret’s uniform was misbuttoned, her hair a mess, while Soo-jin’s hanbok was half-tied, its silk askew. They squinted at Kelly’s watch, the numbers swimming, but they made out 0100. “God, what a night,” Margaret mumbled, her voice hoarse. Soo-jin nodded, her accent thick, “Best Labor Day.” Kelly grinned, her thoughts sluggish, her body heavy with the aftermath of alcohol and sex.
They stumbled to their feet, swaying, Kelly smoothing her dress, Margaret fumbling with her buttons, Soo-jin tying her hanbok. Their laughter was weak but defiant, a shared bond in their drunken chaos. “You’re alright, ladies,” Kelly slurred, her smile crooked. “You too, Green,” Margaret replied, while Soo-jin winked, “Come back, yes?” They parted with sloppy hugs, staggering out into the cool night air, the shock clearing their heads just enough to navigate to their quarters. The camp’s lights gleamed, a reminder of the war’s persistence and their resilience. The taste of soju, beer, and their wild night lingered, a badge of Kelly’s untamed heart.
Comments
Post a Comment