Donna the Blitz Evacuee

In 1940, a nine-year-old British girl is evacuated to Canada to escape the Blitz. She quickly wins the hearts of her hosts--especially their 11-year-old son!

Author’s Note

Fair warning: This is more of a cute romance story than a sex story. There is a sexual climax near the end of this tale, but if you primarily want a sex story, choose one of my other selections on this website to read.

Part One

All three of us—Mom, Dad and I—were on hand at our city’s small railroad station to meet and welcome Donna Brighton that day in October 1940. I had even taken half a day off school to be present for the occasion.

I, Andrew Francis, was 11 at the time. I was told our new, long-term houseguest was nine years old and I was told to treat Donna as if she were my little sister. I was also reminded that I should get used to Donna being a part of our family because she would be with us indefinitely. For an only child like I was, that was a startling change in lifestyle that was suddenly foisted upon me.

I lived in a Canadian city of about 25,000 people. It was located in southwestern Ontario. It was a lovely place in which to live and grow up, with its diverse mixture of thriving factories and nearby farmland. The factories were especially busy now that the Second World War had been a reality for slightly more than a year. Of course, distance made Canada immune from the perils of the ongoing struggle. That element of safety was the sole reason my parents had accepted refugee Donna. Great Britain was experiencing the Blitz, which imperiled its big cities—especially London and its suburbs. Donna, also an only child, lived in one of them. Her parents made the heart-wrenching decision to send her overseas while the war raged instead of having her remain in the line of fire. She was one of thousands of children who were evacuated to Canada when Britain seemed on the verge of falling to Hitler.

It is estimated that between 6,000 and 10,000 British children were evacuated to Canada under the auspices of an official British government program during the course of the war—especially during the dark days of 1940 and 1941. (One would think the exact number would be known!) It is also estimated that an equal number of children made the same journey privately—that is with no arrangements being made by the British and Canadian governments. Some British parents simply sent their offspring to Canadian relatives and friends. Many English-speaking Canadians in the early 1940s were only two or three generations separated from Britain, so there were still plenty of close familial ties connecting the two countries. With German submarines on the prowl, the journey across the Atlantic Ocean was a hazardous one. In one case, an ocean liner on its way to Canada was sunk by a German torpedo. Sadly, 77 children perished. That incident was so horrific that Winston Churchill paused his government’s evacuee program for a time.

Donna Brighton was one of the evacuees who was enrolled in the official government program. My parents had no close relatives in Britain, but my father and mother thought it was the patriotic thing to do to take in some child they did not know. My parents were married late in life by the standards of the time. I was their first and only child, born in 1929. My mother was 33 at the time she gave birth to me. My father was 36. He was a successful lawyer who specialized in civil law. We lived well and had a large house that certainly had room to accommodate another child. My mom always wanted a daughter, but she was unable to get pregnant after I was born. For Mom, having Donna in our home would be akin to having the daughter she could never have herself.

My parents did the appropriate paperwork in which they asked to have a girl between the ages of eight and ten. They were swiftly approved as “temporary parents” for nine-year-old Donna and told the date she would arrive via train in our hometown. We got several telegrams updating us about where Donna was during her lengthy journey. We cheered when we learned her ship had safely crossed the Atlantic. It was all very exhilarating for us. Even I became caught up in the excitement and anticipation of suddenly being a “big brother” to a foreign girl whose life we were potentially saving from German bombs. Had I been asked beforehand, I would have preferred a boy over a girl, but my mind would change very quickly about that.

Part Two

At the appointed day, Donna arrived safe and sound. Her train trip had been a long one. Her ship had arrived on schedule in Halifax. She and 47 other children had crossed the Atlantic under the supervision of British chaperones. Once she passed through customs and her documents were stamped, Donna was promptly transferred to a westward-bound train that was monitored by Canadian volunteers until she arrived at her final destination. That railroad journey was nearly 1,200 miles—a staggering total for anyone unaccustomed to the vast distances in Canada, much less a child who had seldom ventured far from London in her short life.

My mother had created a homemade sign that said, “Welcome Donna Brighton” and held it aloft as the passengers disembarked from the train. Donna was one of five evacuee children who were starting life anew in my hometown. One of the volunteers, equipped with a bullhorn, was calling out for the host parents, one name at a time, to step forward and collect their British children. Donna saw her name on mom’s sign and came rushing toward us long before our name was called. “I’m Donna Brighton,” she said in a breathless, very soft and appealing British accent. “Are you the Francis family?”

When my father affirmed it was so, Donna, began to cry tears of joy and promptly hugged Dad, then Mom, then me. My heart immediately melted. I think I loved Donna Brighton from that moment onward. I started to cry as both my parents had. Donna, who was tinier than I had imagined, remained in my arms, but she certainly was a pretty, dark-haired girl. I had no desire to let her go. I introduced myself to Donna as her “new Canadian brother” and kissed her on the cheek and continued to hug her. My amorous behavior pleasantly startled my mother.

“Andrew,” she said to me, “I’ve never seen you be so friendly towards any girl before in your entire life.”

“I’ve never had a little sister to love before,” I replied honestly. I also added, “I think Donna is a perfectly adorable girl,” and I gave her another kiss.

“Canadian boys are much more friendly than British boys,” Donna concluded solely from my behavior toward her. “I like it!”

We collected Donna’s belongings—basically all her worldly possessions that she was allowed to bring to Canada—and put them into the trunk of the car. Donna was impressed that we had a private automobile, as most Brits she knew did not. She got into the back seat beside me and eagerly took my hand. A strange protective feeling came over me. The Germans could no longer harm Donna—and I was going to make darn sure no one in Canada would harm her either as long as I was around.

It was about a 20-minute ride back to our house. Despite it being 3 o’clock in the afternoon, Donna was fast asleep, her head resting on my shoulder, when we pulled int our driveway. “Look at that!” Mom said. “That’s a good sign. This sweet little girl feels very comfortable being with us.”

Dad was more analytical. “Perhaps,” he said. “At least there’s no doubt she feels very comfortable with Andrew.”

That night, when Donna was getting ready for bed, she asked permission to kiss all of us, which was, of course, granted. “Andrew too!” she insisted, which made my parents laugh.

“Good!” I said loudly. “I was going to ask permission to kiss you, Donna!”

Donna kissed each of my parents on the cheek. She kissed me on the lips for several seconds. No female outside my family had ever done that! I enjoyed the sensation that it created—and I wanted a second one.

“One kiss is enough, Andrew!” Mom said to me rather sternly. Dad, on the other hand, playfully mussed my hair and gave me a pat on the back. I think he was jealous!

Part Two

Among the first things on the agenda to get Donna acclimated to her new Canadian home was to get her enrolled at the same public school that I attended. The next day, bright and early, Mom took Donna to see the principal about that. She was one of three evacuees who were to be new pupils there. A photographer from our local daily newspaper was present to take some pictures because the evacuees’ arrival was a feel-good news story in our city. Donna was the only girl of the three British children enrolling at my school. She was undeniably cute as well, so the photographer favored her. She made the front page of the next day’s newspaper. The photo showed her looking over the principal’s shoulder as he entered her name in the school’s official record. The photo’s caption identified her and her host family. “Blimey!” she endearingly shouted when she saw her image in print. “I’m a celebrity!” We bought an extra copy of the newspaper so Donna could mail it to her parents back in besieged England. We could only hope the ship carrying the mail from Canada to England would not be sunk by a German submarine.

Donna was at least an average student. Her knowledge of world geography was quite excellent compared to her Canadian counterparts. She was a little bit behind in reading and spelling, but her math skills were up to par with her classmates. I happily served as her personal escort, making sure she got to her classroom each day and home afterward. She liked the lunches my mother packed for her because they always contained a treat of some kind. (Sweets in Britain had become rare since the war started.) Donna also developed a healthy taste for Canadian vegetables such as corn and turnip that were practically unknown where she was born. Donna also loved chocolate. I quietly spent part of my allowance each week to buy her a large bar. When Dad discovered I was doing that, he asked me why I was being so generous. When I simply said, “It’s because I love Donna, of course,” he increased my weekly stipend!

Donna seemed to be adjusting to Canada splendidly. She had never seen significant snowfall, so she had never built a snowman before. We built one together. She loved her new down-filled coat—an absolute necessity to combat the frigid winter temperatures. I taught her how to ride on a toboggan and how to ice skate. She was never great at the latter skill, but with prodigious effort she could at least complete a few laps at the local rink without toppling over backwards. When one unkind boy laughed at Donna’s slowness and clumsiness on the ice, I threatened to make him late for his next birthday if he ever said an unkind thing to Donna again. When we got home, the moment after Donna had shed her winter coat, she gave me an affectionate bear hug and kissed me a dozen times for being her protector. I didn’t know quite how to react, so I just said to her, “Thank you, Donna. I’ll always be here for you.”

Sometimes I was the one who had to get used to Donna’s presence. About seven months after her arrival, in May 1941, I had been playing baseball with some friends on an unseasonably warm day and was sweating profusely when our game concluded. I walked into the house and stepped into the bathroom to wash my face with cold water. I got the shock of my life when I heard a voice.

“Hello, Andrew,” Donna coyly said. “It’s my fault. I forgot to lock the door.”

I glanced in the mirror and saw that 10-year-old Donna was enjoying a cool bath. I saw more of her than I should have and I was greatly embarrassed that I had intruded on her privacy. I turned around to face her. I said, “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Donna! I didn’t realize you were in here! Please forgive me! You know I wouldn’t do this on purpose!” Having said that, I realized I hadn’t exactly rushed out of the bathroom. In fact, I didn’t move at all for more than a few seconds. I don’t think I had ever seen a girl in her birthday suit before under any circumstances—and I rather liked what I was seeing!

I then came to my senses, hurriedly left the bathroom, and continued apologizing through the closed door. The last thing I wanted to do was offend Donna in any way, so I continued to babble about how sorry I was about what had just occurred. Finally, Donna put an end to it by saying, “Andrew, it’s really quite alright. I know it was an accident. Besides, if there’s one person in the world whom I don’t mind interrupting my taking a bath it would be you. So please stop apologizing to me.”

Utterly dumbfounded, I said nothing more and went to my bedroom with water still dripping from my hands and face. It took a few moments for the impact of what Donna had said to make an impression on me. When it did, I broke into an enormous smile. Furthermore, that was easily the sexiest comment I had ever heard in my 12 years.

The Germans’ Blitz on London and other British targets basically ended when Hitler invaded the Soviet Union in June of 1941 and redirected his priorities to the new Eastern Front. There was some talk of repatriating the evacuee children with the parents across the Atlantic, but sensible heads prevailed. Submarines were still a huge threat, and the Germans might resume bombing Britain at any time.

Donna always wrote at least one letter a week to her parents—and she got plenty of mail in return from them. My mother often proofread Donna’s letters for her because spelling wasn’t her best subject. One day in the spring of 1943, Mom picked up a letter on the dining room table that 12-year-old Donna hadn’t quite finished. By that time, Donna had moved up in the looks department from cute to beautiful.

Mom figured she’d get a jump on her proofreading task, so she read what Donna had penned thus far to her parents. One passage truly startled her. It said, “I am torn. I miss you and love you, of course, and I want to see you again very soon, but I also love Andrew so dearly that I could not bear to be an ocean away from him. I am very happy staying in Canada for the rest of my life…if I can share it with Andrew.”

Mom realized she probably wasn’t supposed to read that letter even when Donna had completed it. Later that day when Donna was occupied with her schoolwork, Mom had a quiet chat with me and explained that she had stumbled upon a letter that Donna was writing that expressed her extreme love for me. If Mom expected me to be shocked, I wasn’t in the slightest. I was pleased. To me, it was the greatest news of my life.

“Andrew, I can tell when a girl is serious,” Mom said as if Donna’s heartfelt feelings were somehow problematic. “Donna is definitely serious. She wants to marry you someday.”

“That makes things easier for me, Mom,” 14-year-old me replied, “because I want to marry Donna, too. I’ve loved her since the day she arrived.” I paused for a moment, smiled and said, “You must remember that day, Mom. You limited me to just one kiss with Donna. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.”

Mom just tossed her hands into the air in exasperation. Meanwhile, I rushed to my bedroom where I had a desk and writing paper. I immediately wrote the mushiest letter in my entire life to Donna. I told her that she was “the most wonderful, beautiful and desirable girl I had ever met” and I would not want to live without her even when the war ended. I put the letter into an envelope, sealed it, wrote her name on it, and drew three lopsided hearts underneath it.

I then walked 15 feet to Donna’s bedroom, knocked on the door and said, “Mail call!” It was what I always shouted to her whenever she got a letter from England.

Without opening the door, Donna replied, “Mail call? That’s impossible. I already went through today’s mail. There was nothing for me.”

“You must have missed this one,” I sneakily said. She opened her door, I handed her the letter I had just written, and I hastily retreated to my bedroom to await the inevitable reaction.

The sound I heard was difficult to describe. It fell somewhere between a shriek and a gasp. The next thing I knew, Donna had invaded my bedroom—that was a first—and was smothering me with a series of kisses. Over the years, Donna and I had occasionally exchanged playful pecks. But her final kiss was not one of those. It was the type that ended Hollywood love stories. It was long, slow and passionate. I could feel my heartrate rising rapidly and I was starting to perspire.

Donna and I separated for a moment, just long enough for her to crack a grin and say, “I guess you read my unfinished letter to my parents. I figured its contents would grab your attention.”

“Actually, my mother read it,” I corrected her. “There was no way she was not going to tell me about it.” Suddenly I was alarmed and asked, “Donna, are you telling me this is all a joke?”

“Heck no! I meant every word!” she told me. “But I did want to get us thinking about what we are going to do when the war ends. I don’t think the Germans have a chance to win it anymore, so we need to figure out how we can stay together forever.”

I gave a huge sigh of relief. Then I said, “Jeez, you had me worried there, Donna. I meant every word I wrote too, but don’t give me a scare like that. I think you need to be punished.”

I quickly grabbed her, put her over my lap and administered a spanking. After about five swats, I stopped. “This isn’t working, I’m really enjoying this—and I think you are, too. Am I right, Donna?”

Donna said nothing. She just nodded in agreement.

I put my hand on her exposed white panties and gave her rear end a sensuous rub. “You have an excellent bum, Donna!” I only stopped fondling it when I heard my mother come up the stairs from the laundry room.

Donna heard her, too. “I’d better get back into my room and finish what I was doing,” she said. “We’ll talk later. I love you, Andrew.”

Part Three

It was late April 1945. The world and the war were both changing in a hurry. Franklin Roosevelt had died. So had Benito Mussolini at the hands of an Italian lynch mob. Hitler had died by his own hand, having shot himself inside his underground bunker in Berlin as Soviet forces closed in on him. (Of course, the official Nazi announcement said Hitler had died heroically leading his troops against the invading Russians.) A few days later, Nazi Germany surrendered. The war in Europe was now over. The Japanese still need to be vanquished, however, but they were totally on the defensive. They posed no threat to anyone else now. It was all wonderful news, but it renewed something that I was dreading. When would Donna be summoned home by her parents? I hated the idea—and so did she.

As early as the spring of 1943, Donna and I had decided we would be married sometime in the future. That was definite; time was the only factor. In May 1943, I was 14 and she was 12. At least four more years would have to come and go before we could legally wed. When Hitler offed himself two years later, I was 16 and Donna was 14. We were still far too young to get legally hitched.

New stories started to appear that soon the children who had been evacuated to Canada would be sent home at the earliest possibility. In most cases this was joyous news, but there were a few exceptions: In some cases, the youngest evacuees in 1940—three-year-olds who were now eight—had no memories of their biological parents. As far as they were concerned, their “parents” were their Canadian hosts, not strangers in England.

In Donna’s case, she was allowed to complete the eighth grade in June and then begin her long journey home. She was eventually given a departure date of Wednesday, July 18. She admitted she was still torn about leaving Canada. I was heartbroken that she was moving out of our home, and I might never see her again.

On Saturday, July 14, my father treated my mother to a dinner at a fancy restaurant followed by a movie. Donna and I had plenty of leftovers to feed ourselves. As they were departing, Dad said to me, “I’m sure you and Donna will find some way to amuse yourselves tonight…such as the radio.” Then he winked at me. I clearly understood what he was telling me—without him really telling me. I’m not sure Donna did, though.

I made the two of us some roast beef sandwiches. We ate them silently. Shortly after I took my last bite, I finally said, “Donna, did you pick up from Dad that he wants us to have a fuck tonight?”

“Thank heavens you said that!” she replied. “I certainly got that idea. I just wanted to make sure you got that message, too!”

“This would be a first for me,” I admitted.

“Same for me,” acknowledged Donna
.
“That’s good,” I joked. “That means neither one of us will know if the other is a lousy lover.”

We both laughed. I lifted Donna off her feet. She was still a tiny girl, only about 5’2”. I carried her lovingly to my bedroom.

For someone with no sexual experience, Donna was surprisingly aggressive. I did not expect to receive oral sex, but Donna voluntarily provided it. I returned the favor to her. “Blimey, that feels nice!” she exclaimed. Donna was still very much a British girl despite spending nearly five years in Canada. Donna had developed a very appealing figure—considerably improved since I accidentally intruded on her bath four years earlier. I amused myself by fondling her breasts for several minutes until her nipples were hard enough to poke me in the eye.

I could have engaged in foreplay indefinitely, but I could tell Donna was getting a little bit impatient for intercourse. “Andrew, aren’t you going to ride me? That’s what I was built for.”

I couldn’t dispute that, so I quickly complied. We both expressed pleasure when I penetrated her vagina. “Long overdue,” said Donna, who continued to surprise me with her sensuality. I started with long, slow thrusts but I eventually increased my speed. I could tell an orgasm was imminent, but I pulled out just before the critical moment and ejaculated onto Donna’s stomach. It felt great, but Donna was puzzled.

“Why didn’t you come inside me, Andrew?” she asked. “I think your father wanted you to impregnate me.”

“Yeah, he probably did,” I stated. “I adore you Donna, but you’re just 14. You’re too young to be a mother—regardless of the circumstances we’re in. Come to think of it, I’m just 16. I’m too young for fatherhood, too.”

When dad got back from the movies, he took me aside and asked if I had “gotten intimate” with Donna. “Yes, I replied, “but not to the point where Donna will be in a maternity ward.”

“That may have been your only hope to keep her permanently in Canada, son,” he told me and never raised the subject again.

Donna tearfully departed on schedule on July 18. We faithfully exchanged love letters every week for the next four years. The plan was for one of us to eventually visit the other so we could get married. By happenstance—or maybe it was divine intervention—one of my father’s affluent law clients, Mr. Callahan, made it all possible in the summer of 1949. He was so pleased by Dad’s excellent work for him that he wanted to give him a major bonus with no consideration of the cost. Dad suggested three return ocean liner tickets from Canada to England “so I can visit my unofficial daughter”. When Dad explained to him how Donna had been our wartime houseguest for nearly five years, and how his son had fallen in love with her, Mr. Callahan generously upped his gift to include three first-class railway passages to Halifax. I happily sent Donna a telegram to say when we’d be arriving in her London suburb. Mr. Callahan told someone about it, who told someone about it, and the story eventually reached our local newspaper. The same reporter who had covered Donna’s arrival in 1940 wrote a story about my family’s upcoming journey to England to visit her. It ran on the front page. I mailed the newspaper to Donna with a note that said, “Blimey! I’m a celebrity!”

To make a long story short, three days after we got to England, Donna and I were married in a modest civil ceremony. We simply could not wait. We spent the next two weeks arranging for her passage and full-time residence in Canada. Her parents and mine got along swimmingly. The Brightons were thrilled that their beloved daughter had found love and a husband in Canada during the darkest days of the war. We eventually had five children, three girls and two boys.

On the day of our 50th wedding anniversary in 1999, I accidentally walked in on Donna while she was taking a bath. She never did get into the habit of locking the bathroom door. “Some things never change,” I muttered with a laugh.

“I know, Andrew,” Donna replied. “I’m not ten anymore, but you still like to gawk at me while I bathe.”