This true story happened a long time ago, most of the principals are gone, and the story is told only to memorialize  a boy who never had a chance.

It was about 1944. The exact dates are slowly fading from my memory, but some of the events are as fresh as if they had happened yesterday. My father had been dead for over four years, my two brothers were fighting a war in Europe, and I and my mother lived alone, except for the roomers she took in to make ends meet. Her evening cleaning job didn't pay much, and my father, although he was a good provider and a hard worker, had left us nothing.

One of these roomers had committed his wife to a mental institution, a situation that raised a lot of questions that were never answered. His five children were in what was called an orphanage in those days. I was not told the reasons, but suddenly one day we had a house full of kids. It was several years later that this person became my stepfather.

There were two boys older than me, two much older girls, and one younger boy. The girls escaped from their father in short order. The older boys were not of much concern, they did their own thing, had a stormy relationship with their father, and joined the military to be free from him as soon as they finished high school and were old enough.

The younger boy was Russell.

Russell was a beautiful little boy with curly, reddish blonde hair and a smattering of freckles. He was three years and four months younger than me. Russell was not a "bad" kid, but he seemed to have a knack for innocently doing the wrong thing at the worst possible time. His brothers didn't pay him much attention, they were too busy with their own problems of survival. So Russell attached himself to me, and we became good friends despite the difference in ages. So it came as no great surprise when one night, after Russell's father had been particularly abusive, Russell came over to my corner of the attic and asked if he could get in my bed. He was still sobbing under his breath, and he desperately wanted someone to comfort him.

I was pretty naive at that time, the only sexuality I had encountered up until then was a couple of casual and short lived encounters with my next older brother several years back. Russell had become quite experienced at the orphanage, and after he had calmed down he began to be affectionate in the way that he liked best. In a short while I found that it was very much to my liking as well.

The years went along, and Russell and I got along well together. We regularly found ways and times to spend in our favorite mutual pleasure. If I had known then what I know now I would have entered wholeheartedly into the relationship, and tried to find a way to make it endure. But in the even more narrow minded and repressive society of those days, I never was at peace with myself about the relationship. After graduating from high school, I "got religion", and this exacerbated my misgivings. I went, first in Detroit, and then in Fort Worth, to a "Bible College", where I was emphatically instructed that the pleasure I had been sharing with Russell was "an abomination in the eyes of God".

Coming home for a visit, I went to bed and was shortly joined by Russell. Russell assumed that things would pick up right where they left off, but after a few minutes I became agitated with myself, questioned God as to why I was "this way" and begged the almighty to deliver me from this awful affliction. Russell, incredulous and badly shaken, quietly left the room, and what had been a loving, caring, affectionate relationship died at that instant.

I went back to Texas, enlisted in the Air Force, and didn't return home for a long time. In the meantime, Russell had lied about his age with his father's cooperation, enlisted in the Army, went to Korea, and was killed in action, just four months after his eighteenth birthday, under questionable circumstances. Considering the general attitude toward "queers" at that time, one can read into the official report that Russell was deliberately abandoned in the face of an enemy attack and left to be killed. No one will ever know. His body was returned, and just as his funeral procession reached the cemetery, a terrible thunderstorm broke out. A relative was heard to observe "the poor little bastard couldn't even have a decent day for his funeral". I was there for the funeral, but never lived at home again.

"If" is a big word, though composed of only two letters. I have frequently wondered in later years, once I learned to look at life as it really is and not as others told me it should be, "if" I had not got tangled up with religion, "if" there had been someone to tell me that my relationship with Russell was OK, "if" I had stayed home, gotten a job and an apartment and taken Russell with me, "if" Russell might still be alive??

Now there is only a tiny, rarely visited, ground level tombstone, and my aching, questioning heart. If only...........

Tuhther Dave.
 
 

return to I, boylover