War Bride Scheme

During World War II, a Dutch girl wants to become a pregnant by a Canadian sergeant so she can live peaceably in Canada. He is more than happy to oblige!

Introduction

It’s easy to verify the statistics nowadays with a simple internet search, but when the Second World War was happening, nobody precisely knew how many “war brides” ended up relocating to Canada during and shortly after the conflict. The public certainly realized there were plenty of them, but the true number—a figure close to 48,000—was staggering. One of them, a Dutch girl, married a great uncle of mine. This is his story, so let’s turn back the clock to 1945 and I’ll let him narrate it.

Part One

My name is Arthur Becker. I and four of my brothers served in the Canadian military during World War II. We all got home unscathed. That was pure luck. The worst injury that I received during the war was a slightly sprained ankle that happened far away from the fighting when I stepped awkwardly into a grassy depression in the ground as daylight was fading. I was one of the soldiers who helped liberate the Netherlands from Nazi Germany—or at least most of it—during 1945. There are many people today who don’t know much about the fighting in Holland towards the end of the war. Very few realize hostilities continued there unabated until the Russians took Berlin in early May and forced the overall German surrender.

When I mentioned that I was one of the Canadian soldiers who liberated the Netherlands, that was a bit of an exaggeration. I never regularly carried a gun. I was a supply sergeant. My job was to make sure that the men who actually did the fighting were well fed, well equipped, and got their mail and parcels from home. It actually was a rewarding job. It was incredible to see how happy and emotional that a battle-hardened soldier could become by simply receiving a letter from a loved one back in Canada. I was one of the fellows who also arranged for soldiers to regularly get packages of goodies from the Red Cross. They included candy, cigarettes, chewing gum, and little extras such as bars of soap and new razor blades. Those everyday items were absolutely cherished by the grateful men I encountered.

I got my safe position because I was a bookkeeper in civilian life and had developed strong organizational skills by being in charge of a few local community projects back home. Some wise person figured I would be of far more use to the army behind the lines than by being one of the grunts exchanging gunfire with the Germans. Thus, I was elevated to a clerical role in the army. I made a point of learning my duties thoroughly and quickly regarding how things got done in the army. I earned two nicknames. One was “Alert Arthur” because I could spot potential trouble in our supply chains and correct it before it became a huge problem. The other was “Accurate Albert” because my inventory totals invariably matched what we actually had in stock. I think they were created to be gentle insults, but I took both those monickers as compliments to my overall competence.

As we moved through the Netherlands, with plenty of tough fighting along the way, the local population was overjoyed to see us. They were suffering terribly at the hands of the callous Germans. Food supplies were becoming scarce. With Germany firmly on the defensive, feeding the captive Dutch population quickly became a low priority. Many Canadian soldiers shared their rations with the locals, especially if they saw a hungry child. Had the Allies not arrived, many Dutch people would have starved to death in 1945.

Often, Dutch women and girls happily showed their gratitude to the Canadians in the most personal and intimate ways—especially to those soldiers who brought foodstuffs to share with them. Not too many lonely soldiers turned down the enticing sexual favors. Of course, being a supply sergeant made me one of the key people in the complex food chain. Canned goods were worth their weight in gold. (That statement is only slightly hyperbolic.) The candy and chocolate in the soldiers’ Red Cross packages were especially prized by the Dutch children who had been deprived of such luxuries in the five years their country had been occupied. Many prostituted themselves for these luxury items. One of my underlings, a non-smoker named Corporal Benson, made a point of trading his cigarette allotment to colleagues in exchange for their chocolate bars. Both parties thought they were getting the best of the bargain. “I’m getting teenage pussy with these,” Benson once coolly told me as he displayed the dozen bars he had just acquired in several swaps. “Nobody can tell me that the joy of cigarette smoking is better than that!”

Even I was not immune to such trading. One day an attractive Dutch woman named Hannah, who looked to be about 25, approached me with a grim face and said she had a hungry child. With absolutely no strings attached, I was going to give her some food from the warehouse that would hardly be missed. Overjoyed by my generosity, she insisted on giving me oral sex. When she had deftly drained my balls, she informed me with a smile that she’d up her payment to full sexual intercourse the following day for the same amount of food…plus just three extra cans of mixed vegetables. She was a fun and enthusiastic gal to ride.

Many Dutch women saw their Canadian liberators as a golden opportunity to escape war-torn Europe. There was no predicting what might happen to many of the liberated countries and their populations once the war ended. Many feared the Soviet Union’s army would keep advancing westward and would impose brutal communist regimes on them. Therefore, the prospects of a new life in free and democratic Canada were highly appealing to them. The most efficient avenue for that was to become a war bride.

The Canadian Army was quick to realize that lonely soldiers didn’t always spend their spare time writing letters, playing checkers and reading newspapers. This was a lesson that was learned by an unprepared Canadian government during the First World War. Back then, when a typical Canadian soldier was rotated off the front lines on the Western Front, he sought three things: a hot bath, a good meal, and a roll in the hay with a French or Belgian prostitute—not necessarily in that order. Frankly, given the brutal realities of life in the trenches, they can hardly be faulted for being hedonistic whenever they could. As a result of their horizontal recreation, Canadian soldiers had the highest rate of syphilis of any Allied country in the Great War. Some men found comfort in the arms of the few civilian girls who were not whores. An unknown total of them married their new sweethearts and, through the army, arranged to have them transported to Canada—sometimes with their infant children. It was all rather a haphazard procedure in the First World War.

By the time the Second World War erupted, the Canadian government had an entire department established for the inevitable onset of war brides. The vast majority of them were British lasses who married the Canadian fighting men who were waiting for D-Day to arrive. However, war brides also came from Belgium, France, Italy and the Netherlands once Europe had been invaded in 1944. European girls who married Canadian soldiers were transported to Canada on ocean liners at the federal government’s expense, receiving third-class accommodations. Upon arriving at the busy port in Halifax, they were next given free railroad passage to their final destination anywhere in Canada. All things considered, it was a heck of a deal. It is little wonder why this was such an appealing option for many young women to pursue when facing an uncertain future in their homelands.

Part Two

One afternoon while I was seated behind my desk busily verifying some inventory totals, a pretty Dutch teen approached me. She told me her name was Alida DeBrusk. She was quite upfront about what she desired—and what she was prepared to offer me for it: Alida wanted as much food as she could carry to take home to her family. In exchange, I could “do anything I wanted” to her. She emphasized, “And I mean anything!” Of course I was intrigued. I was just a typical 30-year-old bachelor with average looks who could only dream of a young, nubile girl back in Canada saying such a thing to me. Somehow, I checked my libido long enough to engage her in conversation before agreeing to her remarkable proposition.

Alida, in very passable English, outlined her long-term objectives. She said, “I want to marry a Canadian soldier, live in his wonderful country, and have his babies.”

“And you chose me?” I asked with surprise.

“Why not?” Alida replied. “You seem like a good choice—and because of your desk job in the army, you are far less likely to be killed or wounded than a typical Canadian soldier. Are you interested? If so, let’s fuck!”

I laughed for a moment at her candor, but I informed her I certainly was interested. “As an added bonus,” I said to Alida, “I’ll even tell you my name, where I live in Canada, and my occupation! I’m Sergeant Arthur Becker and I live in Hamilton, Ontario. In civilian life I’m employed as a bookkeeper. Now let’s fuck!”

Alida wasted no time in disrobing. I got the distinct impression that this was not the first time in her young life that she had willingly exchanged sexual favors for food for her family. I was in no position to pass any sort of moral judgement on this or any other Dutch girl in 1945. The hardships of war brought on tough times and extraordinary circumstances to people who had to endure Nazi occupation.

Furthermore, the more I eyed this girl, the more appealing I found her to be. She was about 5’6” tall, had dirty blonde hair, a cute face, and a better-than-average figure that she did not try to hide. I suspected that particular asset had been used as a tool to get her family many necessities in recent months.

I sought female companionship as much as any other Canadian soldier did, so I quickly became aroused upon seeing Alida’s lovely breasts and hairy vagina. I’m sure Alida couldn’t help but notice my obvious erection—and she did her best to stimulate my penis without delay. She knelt before me, stroked it slowly, and eventually placed it in her mouth. It was the first time in my life I had received that particular sexual favor. I quite enjoyed it, especially the feeling of her tongue on the tip of my manhood! I had to be careful not to ejaculate too quickly. I wanted to save my load for her teenage pussy.

My bed was a mere canvas cot that I set up nearby my desk. (Because I was on call basically 24 hours a day, a slept irregular hours and catnapped on that handy cot whenever I could.) I didn’t know if it was strong enough to support two people, but Alida, despite her physical attributes, was a slight girl. She probably did not weigh more than 100 pounds. I laid down upon it—and Alida promptly laid down on me. Wasting no time, she grabbed my shaft and inserted it into her vagina. She gave me a coy smile and began riding me with enthusiasm. I caressed Alida’s enticing breasts while she did this. They were quite lovely things. I silently thought Alida would be a marvelous bedmate to enjoy for the next 40 or 50 years.

We had been copulating for about two minutes when we were interrupted by one of my underlings, Private Carruthers, who was perhaps 20 years old. He was carrying a handful of requisition forms when he strode into my office. He was briefly startled by seeing the nude Alida on top of me.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted you, sir! I do have several forms for you to examine, though,” he stated. His presence at such an intimate moment may have been awkward and embarrassing for him, but I noticed he wasn’t trying very hard to avert his eyes from the goings-on on my cot.

“Just place them on my desk, Carruthers,” I calmly instructed him while still focusing fully on my sex partner. “As you can plainly see, I have something far more interesting to examine before I look at your paperwork. This young lady and I are approaching a critical moment. Leave us alone so we can achieve that, please.”

I wasn’t lying. Seconds after Carruthers left the room as instructed, I launched a huge blast of semen inside Alida’s pussy. We remained conjoined for several minutes, which I spent fondling and sucking on Alida’s tits. Her nipples were especially appealing to me.

“I hope you get to put those lovely breasts of yours to practical use in nine months,” I stated with a smile. I meant every word.

“I hope so, too!” Alida agreed. “Let’s fuck as often as we can to make that possible.”

“The sex was great, Alida, but maybe we should actually get to know each other a little bit if we intend to get married—even if there is a war going on! Grab as much food from the storage room as you can carry. Take it home to your family. Then come back here so we can have a long conversation—and then we’ll fuck some more. I’m sure I’ll have no trouble getting it up again for a second romp with you.” It occurred to me that I had never said anything so blunt as that to any female in my whole life. However, war does bring extraordinary circumstances to ordinary people. Be that as it may, Alida had come well prepared. She had travelled from her home to my office on a bicycle. In the bike’s carrying basket, she had brought a half dozen small sacks to collect all the foodstuffs she could. Somehow, she managed to ride home with a sizable load of edibles for her kin.

Alida did return later on in the evening. We had a lovely, meaningful conversation. I learned that she had three younger siblings at home with her two parents. Her mother’s health was not especially great. Alida was definitely a smart girl who loved both Dutch and English literature. (Her parents were well educated, too.) She was also mathematically inclined and hoped to work in a bank. I was impressed with her. As my guest that night, she was entitled to be fed like everyone else at the supply depot. She had double servings of everything. She was especially impressed that we even had apple cobbler as a dessert. As far as quality, it was nowhere near restaurant caliber, and most of us had long grown tired of it, but Alida thought it was a fabulous luxury. I think she had four helpings of it. Sometimes I forgot how deprived the local population had been while under German occupation for so long.

Alida was also quite a practical and logical girl. After about half an hour of chitchat in which I shared my rather mundane life story with her, she suddenly stated, “This conversation has been pleasant, Arthur, but I think we should get on with another round of fucking. I’m sure you would enjoy that, right? It’s also important that I become pregnant as soon as possible. I’m confident that you understand.”

I certainly did understand—and even if I didn’t, the proposition of more delightful intercourse with a sexy blonde girl was a definite enticement. Our activities were basically a carbon copy of what we had done a few hours earlier. Alida performed fellatio marvelously again—and I told her so. I enjoyed caressing her shapely tits; I sucked on them quite a bit this time. We got onto my cot and Alida rode me to another orgasm. I got the impression that this time she did it more affectionately than the first time. We did a lot of kissing after I strongly ejaculated again. “Make sure every drop stays inside my vagina, Arthur,” she told me between kisses. I wasn’t quite certain how I was to ensure that, but I kept my penis inside her until it became totally flaccid. Alida was such a sexy creature that it took several minutes for me to not be aroused by her. Alida bicycled home with another hoard of Canadian canned foods.

We continued to fuck twice daily for three days. Then I came up with the brilliant plan of officially arranging for Alida to be my civilian assistant. It occurred to me that the army made provisions to hire locals to perform various menial tasks. Obviously, Alida couldn’t be put on the payroll for her sexual skills, but she could be hired to help me with all my daily paperwork and to keep track of the inventory and outgoing shipments. Not only did she get paid for her labors, as a bonus her job allowed her all the benefits of where we were—including all the food she wanted to eat. Aldia could have done nothing at all and I would have been happy, but she was a diligent assistant and proved to be a great help to me. We took frequent sex breaks together.

One day in the storage room, we were both overtaken by lust. We each dropped our drawers for a quick fuck. Private Carruthers once again unintentionally interrupted our carnal fun. Alida was in a standing position but bent over, leaning on a stack of flour. I was standing behind her, totally aroused, merrily ramming her pussy with my erection. When I saw Carruthers enter the room and approach us, all I could do was make a joke. “Good afternoon, Carruthers,” I said to him as nonchalantly as possible. Miss DeBrusk made a series of silly arithmetic errors today and she’s being punished for her carelessness. Let that be a lesson to you, too.”

“Absolutely, sir!” Carruthers replied without missing a beat. “I’ll double-check my calculations from now on. I certainly don’t want you doing that to me.”

Like the first time Carruthers had walked in on Alida and me, I unleashed a gusher of jism inside her. Of course, I didn’t see a drop of it, but I had no doubt it was my most prodigious cum shot I had delivered to her thus far. I was hyperventilating afterward from the physical exertion, but I told her, “Alida, my love, if that blast of my cum doesn’t make you pregnant, there is something terribly wrong. I can’t do any better than that!”

One afternoon Alida suggested I visit her home. I did, although I wasn’t sure how I would be greeted by her family, especially her parents. (I expected them to be in their early forties—and it turned out I was right.) After all, I was ravishing their pretty teenage daughter in exchange for a few groceries, and I was overtly trying to impregnate her for a marriage of convenience. I feared her father might be waiting in ambush for me with an ax. I could not have been more wrong. I was greeted as something akin to a savior. “My wife and I want you to marry our daughter and take her to Canada and have many children together,” her father, Morris, told me without hesitation in excellent English. There were tears in his eyes. “That is the best hope for Alida’s future.” Then he whispered to me, “I hope she is a good fuck. If she is anything like her mother, she’d have to be!” I smiled broadly and quietly assured him that his eldest daughter was indeed an excellent screwing partner.

Alida held the job of my assistant for a little bit less than three weeks. One morning she arrived for work and proudly announced to me that she was “99 percent certain” she was pregnant. An army doctor was summoned. After a quick examination he upped the percentage to 99.99. Alida quickly informed her family there was to be a hasty marriage that day. The venue was the living room of the DeBrusk home with an army chaplain officiating. The kiss we shared the moment after we were officially married was long and passionate. “I really do love you, Arthur,” she told me. It was the first time she had actually said that to me. I told her I loved her, too. To my surprise, I wasn’t entirely certain that I had made that clear to her before that moment.

The next thing on the agenda was to get Alida and our future son or daughter to Canada. The war in Europe was obviously nearing its end. The Germans were doomed to defeat, but there were many fanatical Nazis, so the bloody fighting continued, especially in some parts of the Netherlands which the Germans steadfastly occupied until the last day of the conflict. I was with Alida and her family when the announcement came over the radio that ended the European portion of the Second World War. There were many forms to be filled out by the two of us. I was a little bit startled when I saw Alida’s date of birth. She had not mentioned her age to me, and I hadn’t asked about it. I assumed she was 18.

“Is that information correct?” I questioned her as I pointed to the date of birth she had written on one of the papers.

“Yes, it is,” she replied. “You look surprised.”

“I am, but I’m pleasantly surprised,” I told her. “When I’m gone, many of my friends will consider you to be a desirable young widow.”

Tears suddenly welled in my youthful bride’s eyes. “Don’t talk about dying, Arthur. I think you are a wonderful man. I want you to be by my side for the next 75 years.” Then she hugged me tightly. It had been an odd courtship, but I knew at that moment I had married a real gem.

Twelve days later, pregnant Alida was aboard a passenger ship bound for Halifax. She stayed with my brother and sister-in-law until I got home about a month later.

Our first child was a boy. We named him Morris, after Alida’s father. We had three more children after him. Our second child was a girl, whom we named Greta, after Alida’s mother who died not long after she learned she had a namesake granddaughter. (She had been ill with malnutrition during much of 1944. She never did recover her health fully.) Our two other children, James and Judy, were named after relatives of mine. Two of Alida’s siblings eventually immigrated to Canada in the 1950s and lived close enough to us to make frequent visits.

Years later Alida finally confessed to me that during 1945 she “probably had 20 different sexual partners” from the Canadian army who traded food for nookie with her before she decided to target me for marriage. I could find no fault with that under those trying circumstances. When I asked her why she had selected me as a husband, she said she knew I had a kind heart because I had given her siblings candy one day with no strings attached when I was strolling near their house. I had no recollection of the incident. I often wondered if she had mistaken me for someone else.

One night we were watching a documentary on television about Canada’s role in the Second World War. Many old soldiers were interviewed. Despite the horrors they endured, many said they had brought home souvenirs to remind them of their military service, such as a helmet or rifle or some other piece of memorabilia.

When the program ended, Alida said to me, “Arthur, I’ve never seen any war souvenirs that you brought home—besides me, of course. Do you have any?”

“No, dear,” I told her, “I didn’t bring home any object related to my military service. When I was discharged, the only thing I even considered taking home was a bit awkward, so I left it behind.”

“What was it?” Alida asked curiously.

“My reliable army cot. For some reason I was very fond of it!”