War and Love - Just forgotten on the Falklands

Port Howard, West Falklands, March 1982

Autumn in the Southern Hemisphere had already begun in March with its usual storms. It was not without reason that sailors and seafarers of past centuries who had ventured into the South Atlantic for various reasons had dubbed this region the "Roaring Sixties." I, Margret MacIntosh, née Douglas, called Maggie, thirty years old, widowed for two years and without children, had been managing our family farm above Port Howard on the sparsely populated western main island of the Falkland Islands for four years.

My father had farmed our land for many years as part of the large Port Howard Estate, which he managed. Then he fell out with the absentee owners of the estate and withdrew to his own, much smaller property -- but it was enough for him and my mother to maintain a modest standard of living and raise my sister and me properly. My parents were both born on the Falklands -- my father with a very Scottish ancestry, while my mother's family originally came from Northern Ireland. Both families were officially Catholic, which made us a small minority on the Falklands.

My sister Claire, two years older than me, and I received a rather rudimentary education in the one-room school that had been established only a few years earlier during the late 1950s and early 1960s. This prompted my parents to send us to relatives in Dundee, Scotland, so that we could at least obtain a proper school diploma. Both of us were terribly homesick in the industrial city and longed for the open sky and rolling hills of the Falklands. While Claire completed a full high school diploma in Dundee and then started training as a nurse with the National Health Service, I wanted to return home as soon as possible. At the age of sixteen, I made the long journey halfway around the world to return to Port Howard.

It was only then that I realized how incredibly boring my parents' farm was for a young woman growing into adulthood. So I moved to the main town of the eastern Falklands, Port Stanley. There, I worked in a small business that processed the hides of slaughtered sheep into genuine, export-quality sheepskins.

In December 1976, I was visiting the family farm for Christmas when my father suffered a completely unexpected heart attack on Boxing Day and died at home due to the lack of timely medical help. I quit my job in Port Stanley and moved back home to take care of my mother and the farm. But my mother followed my father just a few months later, probably from a 'broken heart,' as the saying goes.

At that time, I had fallen in love with a young fisherman who soon became my husband. We decided to take over and continue running my late parents' farm. Ian wanted to contribute to our livelihood by fishing the plentiful streams on the island and the Falkland Sound between the two main islands. Two years later, his small fishing boat disappeared in a suddenly rising storm, and I became, like so many wives in past centuries, a fisherman's widow.

I now lived and worked alone on our farm, but the small, tightly-knit community of Port Howard, with around 25 permanent residents, was like an extended family. Occasionally, visitors came to the estate with its green roofs, and during sheep shearing season, seasonal workers would stay for four to five weeks before leaving again.

We Falklanders had been watching with suspicion and distrust the ongoing talks between the United Kingdom and Argentina about the future of the British possessions in the South Atlantic since the 1960s. The rare British politicians who visited our islands were repeatedly told that none of the almost exclusively British-descended population wanted to come under Argentine control. The military coup in Argentina in 1976 against the widow of the populist President Juan Perón, who had succeeded him, only heightened the Falklanders' distrust. There were constant rumours of a military invasion by Argentina, and we had little hope that our economically troubled motherland could prevent it.

So it came as a major surprise to me and the residents of our tiny village when, in early April, Argentine ships suddenly appeared off the Falklands and landed several thousand soldiers. Only around the capital Port Stanley, where the governor was based, were there a few days of fighting, which resulted in casualties and wounded on both sides. A few days later, around a thousand Argentine soldiers occupied the undefended West Falklands and became our new masters. The ratio of eight soldiers to every civilian on our extremely sparsely populated island brought about massive changes to our lives.

Although the Argentine army quickly established supply lines for their soldiers -- the two regular airstrips in Port Howard and Fox Bay were still served by small supply aircraft from the undamaged airport in Port Stanley -- there was otherwise little for the soldiers to do. The commanders sought strategic locations for observing the coastline, the Falkland Sound, and the island, where they built small observation posts. They also requisitioned the main house of the Port Howard Estate for their northern command centre, which complemented the main headquarters of the West Falkland occupying forces in Fox Bay. But otherwise, the soldiers largely left us alone in the first days. I only had to take down my shortwave radio antenna, which connected me to the outside world, so I couldn't report military information -- but otherwise, I was allowed to go about my daily farm work undisturbed.

The behaviour of the occupying units -- mostly very young and inexperienced recruits aged eighteen to twenty, led by surprisingly few officers and NCOs -- began to change noticeably over the course of April, once it became clear that the British government in London was preparing a military response and sending a fleet to recapture the Falklands.

The command post in Port Howard requisitioned part of my farmhouse for the crew of an observation and anti-aircraft post on the small hill above my farm and quartered one sergeant and three young recruits with me. I had to clear out two rooms, and they also confiscated my two hunting rifles "for safety." At least I was allowed to stay in my house; I learned later that other families in Fox Bay had fared much worse. My four forced houseguests were at least somewhat trustworthy. The three recruits were still basically boys, and their ill-fitting, unsuitable winter uniforms made them look more like walking scarecrows than fearsome warriors. Only the very silent sergeant seriously worried me, so I barricaded my bedroom door every night to be able to sleep at all.

The autumn weather in April was really miserable. One rain squall after another swept across the island with varying strength of wind. Still, I kept my distance from the soldiers and their scattered posts on the estate and my farm during the day. All four of my forced guests were suffering from the Falklands' climate. They all came from the warm, northern parts of Argentina. Nineteen-year-old Gerado Muller was even from a vineyard near Mendoza and had considerable agricultural experience from home.

Since the three recruits rotated on night watch at the observation post and the sergeant preferred to stay at the command post, a gradually friendly rapport developed between Gerado and me. He liked to sit at my kitchen table during his free time, drink tea, and talk with me. He was intelligent, had successfully completed the Argentine equivalent of high school, and hoped to go to university after his military service. He also, surprisingly, spoke three languages: Spanish, English, and German.

"Where did you learn foreign languages so well?" I asked him curiously.

He shrugged. "I studied English for nine years in school. I mostly just lack practice, but I can understand you very well. And German is my second mother tongue."

"Ah, that explains the surname 'Muller.'"

"Yes. My grandfather's name was originally 'Müller,' but the Argentine authorities simply turned the 'ü' into a 'u.'"

"Did your family emigrate from Germany?"

"Yes and no. Let's just say not entirely voluntarily."

I looked at him, puzzled. "What does that mean?"

"My two grandfathers -- Fritz Müller on my father's side and Klaus Struwe on my mother's side -- were crew members of the Admiral Graf Spee, the battleship that scuttled itself off Montevideo in 1939. The crew had been cleverly brought to safety in Argentina by Captain Langsdorff before the ship was sunk."

"And they just stayed there?"

"Yes. They were free to move and work in their host country. During the war, my grandfathers married, settled in or near Mendoza, and never wanted to return to a destroyed Germany, even though they were both very German."

In the following weeks, our relationship grew more open and friendly -- at least when we were safely alone. Gerado was simply a kind young man who really didn't belong on the Falklands as an occupying soldier. But the generals in Buenos Aires thought differently.

Things became noticeably more unpleasant for us few British residents of the West Falklands in early May. My neighbours and I were completely cut off from news of the outside world after our shortwave radios were dismantled. We had no idea what was happening elsewhere in the world or even on our own islands. We only noticed that the soldiers, especially the officers and NCOs, became increasingly hostile toward us and that the observation and anti-aircraft positions were being expanded and fortified.

"What happened?" I asked Gerado during one of our increasingly rare conversations.

"The British attacked the airport at Puerto Argentino on April 30th and bombed the runway. Three days later, they sank the largest warship in the Argentine Navy west of the Malvinas. Many hundreds died," was Gerado's simple reply. "And a large British fleet is approaching from the north to attack us here on the Malvinas."

At least my neighbours and I knew a bit about what was going on around us. As a consequence of these developments, we were no longer allowed to move freely in Port Howard. If we needed to tend our sheep and farms, we could only do so under constant guard -- one soldier per civilian. We decided among the estate workers that we would always go out in pairs at a minimum. Thank God it was autumn -- the lambs were now about six months old and quite independent, and the sheep had been sheared earlier in our "high summer." Most of our work consisted of repairing fences and doing other maintenance.

Our main concern as sheep farmers was the future. With a normal gestation period of 150 days and a desired lambing season from early November to mid-December, we had to release the rams to the ewes by mid-May at the latest. That was the natural breeding cycle of our sheep breeds, triggered by the shortening daylight hours of autumn. Our rams were ready and had no understanding of us foolish humans distracted by war games, neglecting their natural right.

It took James Wright, my father's longtime successor as estate manager, me, and two other employees considerable persuasion to convince the local commander to let us do our work. None of us spoke a word of Spanish, and the English of the Argentine officers was virtually nonexistent. Here, my dear Gerado proved his worth -- he was called in as an interpreter and did an excellent job. On May 10th, we were able to begin rounding up our scattered sheep with our Border Collies and moving them to pastures near the farms, then letting the rams loose among the flocks. The rest was up to nature.

"Sometimes I envy the potency of a ram," joked my friend Betty, the estate manager's wife, who had been evicted from her home by the command and was now staying with her husband at her sister's cottage.

"A good ram can make a ewe happy multiple times a day," I laughed.

"Not just once -- he does it regularly with the whole flock during rutting season," Betty grinned.

"True. But I'd want the act itself to last much longer," she smirked. "Ten to fifteen seconds would be far too short for me."

Our loud laughter already made our two guards nervous and suspicious -- they were city boys from northern Argentina who had no understanding of country life.

By mid-May, it happened that I was alone with Gerado in my kitchen one early evening. Argentine fighter jets now regularly roared over Port Howard on patrols, but we had yet to be ordered to blackout our windows. The estate owners had allowed my father to build a small hydroelectric plant thirty years earlier, fed from a high mountain lake, which had reliably supplied us with power ever since. That's also why the command had taken the estate's main house -- it had a power supply independent of diesel.

Gerado looked quite desperate. "I'm very doubtful about our chances of beating the advancing British," he said frankly. "We probably have more soldiers, but we're almost certainly worse equipped." He looked down at himself. "Just look at this uniform. When real winter hits and it starts raining and snowing sideways, like you said, you'll die wearing this. I'm already freezing to the bone by the end of my watch." He looked at his hands. "Our gloves are the worst. When I come in from the observation post, my hands are already numb and blue."

He looked deeply discouraged. "And without good hands, you can't become a winemaker."

"You want to be a winemaker?" It was the first I'd heard about his future dreams.

"More than anything. But properly. I want to go to a viticulture school in Europe, study seriously, and turn my parents' farm into a top-notch winery that exports to America and Europe. That way we won't be dependent on Argentina's unstable economy."

I let the young man talk about his dreams for an hour. His eyes sparkled as he spoke. Then he had to leave for his shift in the cold, wet observation post.

Before he went out the door, I briefly stopped him. "I think it's going to be cold tonight. Let me give you something for your hands." Then I went to my bedroom and returned with the sheepskin-lined gloves I had sewn years ago for my father. "Here, take these. And when you're out there alone, put them on. They will definitely keep your hands warm."

Gerado looked at the gloves, then at me, and suddenly took a step toward me. Spontaneously, he hugged me and gave me an awkward kiss, half on the cheek, half on the mouth. "You're incredibly kind. Thank you."

He stepped back, took the gloves, and was already turning to go. "I'll watch over you so that nothing happens to you. No matter what kind of war breaks out here."

Then he was gone, and I stood in my kitchen, thunderstruck. It had been years since my husband, who drowned at sea, had kissed me. I had forgotten how beautiful that felt -- and how good it was.

A few days later, the twenty-five original residents of Port Howard were placed under house arrest. We were also forbidden from tending to or managing our sheep. In fact, the highest-ranking officer in Port Howard, a Capitano Rugierro, had ordered me to leave my farmhouse and come to Port Howard. But the sergeant billeted with me intervened, with the support of his now six-man unit.

"The farmer is the only person who provides us with at least one warm meal a day. Due to the long distance to the estate, we depend on her. Otherwise, we'd likely starve and wouldn't be able to fulfil our important duties," he protested to his Capitano -- this was explained to me by Gerado.

As a result, I was officially placed under house arrest in my own farmhouse and allowed to leave it only when accompanied by one of the soldiers. The sergeant, who had always treated me correctly but somewhat imperiously, suddenly grinned at me.

"Your lamb stew keeps us alive," Gerado translated. "There's no other supply line anymore."

Then he ordered that Gerado be assigned to supervise me full time and be relieved from his night shifts. "It's vital that my group's food supply is ensured."

Once again, I was thunderstruck. The sergeant was apparently cleverer than I had thought.

Later, when I went out to the ewe pasture next to the farm with Gerado -- where the rams were now eagerly doing their work -- he finally shared a few pieces of information after a long silence.

"The British have landed in the north of the island and destroyed our air base on the offshore island, including many planes. After the attack on Puerto Argentino, our supply routes on the western main island can only reach Fox Bay. Nothing gets further north to us. He suddenly stopped in front of the small shelter on the ewe pasture that the sheep used for protection during bad weather. "Strictly speaking, we rely on your hospitality." He shrugged. "Our sergeant knows that. That's why he arranged this solution. I don't know if he truly believes in our victory. But he has a wife and two children at home. And he doesn't want to abandon them here in the Malvinas." Gerado seemed hopeless, his shoulders visibly slumped.

I don't know what instinct guided me at that moment. Maternal instinct? After all, I was eleven years older and had far more life experience. In any case, I suddenly pulled him through the open gate of the shelter, hugged him, and kissed him.

This time properly -- warm, soft, and right on the mouth. He was completely surprised at first, then responded in kind. We stood in a tight embrace for several minutes, kissing and gently touching.

"We're in this together, Gerado," I said finally with a determined, maybe slightly overconfident voice. "And we'll survive this war -- no matter how it ends. We both want to live!"

Gerado nodded silently. Then he said just one determined word:

"Yes." He clenched his fist and hugged me again. "So help us God!"

His last words made me flinch. With Ian's death, I had lost the last trace of my faith.

In the following days, there was an enormous increase in jet fighter activity, flying extremely low over the ridge behind my farm and then out over Falkland Sound. The anti-air missile station above my farm, built close to the dug-in observation post, was now ready for action around the clock and fired two missiles for the first time on May 28th.

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" I asked Gerado, who regularly talked to his comrades when delivering food and water to the post.

"Not much. Only that your soldiers landed somewhere in the north of the sound on the east island and are now fighting our positions."

The next morning brought the kind of winter clarity typical for our region, usually a sign of an approaching major storm.

"There really is a 'calm before the storm,'" I told my constant companion as we went to inspect the ewe pasture.

The clouds hung relatively low, but from our elevated position, we could see all the way to the eastern shore of Falkland Sound. There lay Goose Green and Darwin, the largest settlements on the other side, each with a decent airstrip that used to be serviced by small supply planes from Port Stanley, just like Port Howard and Fox Bay.

"Those are massive columns of smoke!" I pointed toward something about twenty miles away.

"Heavy fighting going on," Gerado commented.

Moments later, two Argentine fighter jets thundered overhead in low flight, heading toward the smoke. Just then, we saw two other jets approaching from the north over the water, steering straight toward the Argentines.

Because of the northwesterly breeze, we heard nothing, but we clearly saw the fighters engage in an aerial dogfight.

"This must have been what it looked like over England in 1940," I murmured, watching the air battle unfold before us, fascinated and stunned.

"Just faster," Gerado grinned. "Even flying low, these planes are two to three times faster than the WWII ones."

We stood close together at the open shelter on the ewe pasture and stared out across the sound. Suddenly, Gerado wrapped both arms around me from behind and pulled me tightly against him. I leaned my head back against his shoulder until we were cheek to cheek. I could hear and feel each of his breaths. And I felt infinitely safe in his young but strong arms.

"I'm falling in love with a half-grown boy -- in the middle of a war," I whispered to myself. "I can't believe it." Then I turned toward him and we stayed in this embrace for what felt like an eternity -- though it surely was no more than five minutes.

"I think some higher power sent you to my farm," I finally confessed to Gerado.

"I feel that too," he said, laughing with a touch of cynicism. "I just hope this war ends for you and me the same way it did for my grandfathers in 1939 -- with freedom and safety."

We kissed again and returned to the reality of my farmhouse under house arrest so I could prepare food for "my" soldiers.

All day and all night, the roar of jet fighters could be heard again and again. Then, in the early morning hours -- dawn had begun half an hour earlier -- the surface-to-air missile site on the mountain above my farm launched two missiles. Since Gerado and I, who were sitting alone in my kitchen at that moment, had already witnessed this several times over the past few days, we flinched at the noise but didn't feel any danger.

That changed ten minutes later when we heard a massive double explosion and felt my whole house shake. On the side of the house facing the mountain, two windows shattered from the blast wave, scattering shards of glass across both rooms--one of which was my bedroom.

After a few seconds of shock, we both jumped up, ran out the front door on the valley side of the house, and cautiously peeked around the corner. In the gray light of early dawn, we saw only bizarrely twisted steel beams of the former missile site, lit by the glow of its own flames rising like a torch.

"They've destroyed our site!" Gerado shouted excitedly, ran back into the house, put on his boots, and began to run up the mountain.

I followed him, but first grabbed two shovels and two flashlights from my tool shed, just in case. When I arrived at the site, I immediately saw the result of what was obviously a British missile strike on the Argentine position. The two soldiers on duty -- who had likely fired the missiles earlier -- lay motionless on the ground. Blood still trickled from their mouths and ears; the blast wave from the exploding missile and the subsequent explosion of the two remaining mounted anti-aircraft missiles had fatally damaged their lungs and ears. Two young recruits, neither even twenty years old, were dead. They were the first casualties of the war in Port Howard.

"Our" sergeant, who had been at headquarters and had rushed to the scene with a young lieutenant, ordered the bodies of the fallen to be recovered, which the three off-duty recruits, including Gerado, promptly did. I noticed a heated exchange between the lieutenant and the sergeant. Then Gerado came to me to convey in English that I was to return immediately to my farmhouse and not leave it until further notice.

"I'll protect you, Maggie. Even if it costs me my life," he whispered to me as I turned and walked back to my farm.

Nothing at all happened for the next few hours, which deeply unsettled me. It felt as though a kind of war council was being held about me elsewhere.

Ignoring the last order, I sneaked over to the ewe pasture, stood in the shed entrance, and visually checked whether any sheep had been harmed by the explosion or the blast wave. I was lucky -- apparently the distance and elevation difference from the destroyed site were enough to prevent any deaths or injuries. Cautiously glancing down the long, empty path from my farm to the estate, I slipped back into the house and kept waiting.

"There's no point in fleeing," I admitted to myself several times, trying to stop myself from doing something foolish. It was just before the start of winter, and I had no supplies anywhere outside my farmhouse that would allow me to survive for even a few weeks.

Late in the afternoon, Gerado and "our" sergeant returned. Gerado translated the order: I was to be interned in the village hall along with all the other local residents of Port Howard Estate, so I should pack a bag with personal belongings and follow the sergeant.

"I'm supposed to look after the farm in the meantime," Gerado added in English, "so that later on, an Argentine farmer can take it over. The Capitano and the lieutenant think I meet all the requirements for that as a farmer's son." He gave a faint smile.

I just nodded. "You know my collies by now. They know how to work if necessary. Leave the ewes on the large pasture -- there's enough grazing for the next four weeks." Half an hour later, in the late evening twilight, I followed the sergeant and was interned along with the other 24 residents of Port Howard.

We had access to one toilet, no shower or real bathroom, but a small kitchen. We had to make emergency sleeping arrangements on the hall floor. Betty, the estate manager's wife, took on the role of quartermaster and organized our forced coexistence as best she could. Only after the war would we learn that conditions for other islanders -- such as those in Goose Green -- had been significantly worse and more dangerous. The missile strike on the Argentine site would remain the only real combat in Port Howard, though of course we didn't know that at the time.

Four days later, on the morning of June 5, Capitano Rugierro, the highest-ranking officer, appeared in our community hall along with Gerado (as translator) and two unfamiliar sergeants. The hall, despite all efforts, now looked like a real emergency shelter.

"While fighting is happening in a wide arc around Puerto Argentino in the east," the Capitano began, "there are currently no military engagements in the western part of the Malvinas. But we have a problem -- for you and for our soldiers." He paused, scanning us with sharp eyes as Gerado translated. "Our supplies will only last four more days. And if we let you go hungry, six." He wore a diabolical grin as Gerado translated, looking directly at me, calm-faced. "But I don't want any of my soldiers to go hungry," the Capitano continued. He shrugged apologetically and made a helpless gesture. "Unfortunately, my soldiers are all from the cities. Not a single one has ever slaughtered or butchered a sheep." His grin turned strained. "For that reason, we've decided to let all of you return to your homes -- under guard by two soldiers -- if you start today providing food for my men and for yourselves."

We residents of Port Howard exchanged glances and soon nodded collectively. James, the estate manager, accepted the Capitano's proposal on our behalf.

An hour later, I was back in my farmhouse accompanied by the sergeant already staying with me and "my" Gerado. That same afternoon, we selected two sheep from among the ewes that were not nursing lambs and took them to the estate's small self-supply slaughterhouse.

"My husband has ordered the slaughter of ten sheep for now," my friend Betty told me. "That's enough meat for plenty of hearty and warming stews."

"Let's see how things go," I agreed. For a moment, the two of us stood close enough that no one could overhear. "I've heard the Argentines only hold Port Stanley and its immediate surroundings now. The mountains are said to be in our boys' hands."

Betty raised her eyebrows. "Then maybe those ten sheep will be enough to feed us until the war ends."

"I wish I could share your optimism. But here in the west, over a thousand Argentinians are still stationed. They have to be defeated first. And that frightens me."

"We just have to be careful. But the Capitano seems like a reasonable and pragmatic man. Not like that arrogant lieutenant."

"Still, they're enemy soldiers. A few days ago we saw the huge columns of smoke over Goose Green and Darwin. After what happened with the missile strike above my farm, I never want to witness something like that again -- live."

"You're absolutely right. Getting caught in the crossfire wouldn't be good for us. Let's hope for the best."

Our willingness to help solve the constant food supply problem significantly eased tensions between us and the occupying soldiers. Everyone felt that, in a strange way, we had become a kind of community of fate.

My home, which Gerado had looked after just as well as my dogs and sheep, was essentially undamaged. He had boarded up the two broken windows with wooden slats from my shed days earlier, keeping wind and rain out. But cleaning my bedroom and bed of all the glass shards had been very time-consuming, and I hoped I wouldn't find any fragments in my sleep and cut myself. I was lucky -- the next morning, the sheet beneath me was bloodless.

The following evening, Gerado and I were suddenly alone in my house. "Our" non-commissioned officer, who had been assigned to me as the second guard, had left for the estate and announced he wouldn't return until the following morning. I had lightened my small stock of Italian red wines -- untouched and undamaged by the occupying troops -- by one bottle. Gerado, with the taste of a connoisseur, had found it to be good, and after our hearty dinner, we had already drunk almost the entire bottle.

I loved listening to his dreams about the future. They felt infinitely far away, yet so close, thanks to the clarity and structure of how he told them. I knew a little about farming, but I truly had zero knowledge of viticulture. Gerado genuinely managed to inspire me.

As I listened to him, warmed by the red wine, a feeling began to rise in me -- one I had only experienced once before in my life. "I love this boy," I silently admitted to myself and suddenly looked at him with new eyes. I hadn't expected that, after the watery death of my husband, this beautiful feeling would flow through me again. But here, in the middle of a war raging around us -- one we didn't know whether we would survive -- sat a man eleven years younger, in a foreign uniform, at my kitchen table, and I had to admit to myself that I loved him.

Then it completely overcame me. I stood up, walked around the table, and embraced Gerado. "Thank you for looking after me and my home so well." I pulled him up from his chair, took his head in both my hands, and kissed him -- warmly, intensely, right on the mouth. After a few seconds of total surprise, he returned my kiss. It became deeper, wilder, as our lips parted and tongues met -- more erotic and seductive.

"Have you ever slept with a woman?" I suddenly asked him directly.

Gerado only nodded. Somehow, I was relieved. That meant I wasn't taking this dear boy's innocence. Then I took his hand, led him to my bedroom, and kissed him again as I embraced him. "I love you, Gerado. And I want to give you the best thing a woman can give. Myself."

It took us a while to undress each other from our not-so-alluring work clothes. Then I pressed my soft breasts, now with rock-hard nipples, against his lightly hairy chest, kissing and caressing him -- which he returned with equal passion.

"How many women have you made happy?" Curious as I was, I wanted to know whether I had to be a teacher that evening -- or whether I held a youthful lover in my arms.

The answer came hesitantly and softly. "Twice. And it was exciting... but somehow also disappointing."

"It will be a great pleasure for you as well as for me," was my confident answer. "Come, jump on to my bed." I placed Gerado into the middle of my bed, which had been my martial bed many years before. His cock was already erected and hard, squeezing some pre-cum from the top, which I distributed over his glans with my fingertips. Gerado responded already with pleasant moans. It was obvious that I had to plan two steps if I wanted to satisfy my own pleasure feelings. My inexperienced lover would jerk off very soon after his long pause. So I had a chance to introduce him to the exciting new world of experienced love making. I knelt beside him, spread my legs and lead his right hand to my already dripping pussy. Instinctively, he was doing the right thing and started to heat me up with his fingers. In the same moment I bent forward, took his now rock-hard cock into my mouth and played with my tongue around his glans. Gerado had never experienced oral love from a woman, he moaned now very loud and excited. Suddenly he shouted: "Oh my god! How wonderful!" Then he jerked off.

I love cum. And because of the fetish I took his entire first load into my mouth and swallowed the major part. Then I cuddled beside him and kissed him with my creampied mouth, giving him a first chance to taste his own cum. He liked it, probably he even didn't recognize it, but he kissed me passionately like a devil.

The whole experience in my bed was so exciting for Gerado that his cock didn't shrank. Five minutes later he was really rock-hard again after I had invested some massaging of his exciting cock.

"And now?" was his cautious question.

"I take the lead. You should enjoy it. By the way: you can play with my bobbies and can screw my nipples really hard and long." With these words I jumped into the Cowgirlposition and rubbed my pubic hair intensively over the entire length of his cock. Then I lifted myself up, directed his maleness, rubbed his tip a few times through my wide open labias and pocketed him in. It was a kind of 'hole in one'. Because I was so wet and horny that I took his entire length into my pussy in one move. Slowly, very slowly, I started to ride him, up and down, forward and backward, sometimes rotating. Gerado enjoyed this treatment with closed eyes but followed my wish to treat my tits intensively and to squeeze my nipples as hard as possible. Relaxed by his first climax, our ride was long and became more fiercely step by step. Reaching our point of no return, we started sweating more and more. I reached one hand down between us, squeezed my thick puffy and erected clit once and exploded with a very loud cry. I think I got the heaviest and most exciting orgasm of my entire life, shivering with my entire body. And just at this moment my young lover exploded a second time and pumped his cum deep into my pussy. I collapsed onto his breast, we lied on top of each other heavily breathing and soaking wet from our sweat and love juices, caressed each other and whispered small love words into each other's ears.

"I love you!" I confessed to the nineteen-year-old young man in my bed, after I had lain down beside him again and one of my hands was constantly wandering over his body in a caressing motion. "I don't want to lose you!"

"I love you, Maggie," he replied in kind. "No matter what happens, I want to be with you."

Our love dialogue continued for a long time, even though we were both aware deep down that huge obstacles stood in the way of our love. After all, Argentina and we were at war, our soldiers were still shooting at each other and killing one another. But for this night, we had both completely blocked out that reality. We were in our own world, and in that world, we had passionate and at the same time fulfilling sex once again -- this time quite conventionally in the classic missionary position, where I clung tightly to him with my legs crossed behind his back.

At dawn, we left our battlefield of love because we feared the sergeant's arrival. Just in time, because half an hour later, he actually showed up -- just to collect his breakfast. "Your tea is much better than at the estate," Gerado translated his praise and thanks for me. Then a calm but busy day began, as we had to round up some sheep that had got out, bring them back to the big pasture for the ewes, and repair the damaged sections of the fence. "Our" sergeant stayed in the house; the stormy and wet weather was too unpleasant for him. But Gerado helped me with full commitment, as if he already belonged on my farm.

Our sex life that week consisted of two blowjobs in the shelter on the ewe's pasture. Since his return, our sergeant rarely left my farmhouse during the day and never at night, so we were never alone. Despite the goodwill of Gerado's immediate superior, we didn't want to take any risks. After our first night of love, I had already done some serious calculations to determine whether Gerado might have got me pregnant the first time. Of course, since the death of my husband, I hadn't used any contraception due to lack of opportunity, but I was pretty sure I had just been lucky this time and that my overwhelming lust and emotion hadn't resulted in any consequences. I wasn't willing to take that risk now, in the middle of my cycle. I explained the situation to my lover, who completely understood.

On June 12th, our sergeant returned from a meeting at the command post looking completely dejected. It was obvious, and especially noticeable by the smell, that he had been drinking heavily. "Our comrades are currently being defeated in Puerto Argentino," he eventually told Gerado with glassy eyes. "The captain doesn't know what will happen here on our island. So far, no British soldiers have landed on the western Malvinas, but our own supply lines here have basically collapsed." He was silent for a while, then issued Gerado a final order. "I have to go back to the command post at the estate tomorrow morning. You stay here until you receive new orders. We are not to leave any residents of Port Howard unsupervised." Then he went to bed to sleep off his drunkenness.

Gerado and I sat for several more hours at my kitchen table, discussing what this information might mean for us.

"A victory by British troops on East Falkland will result in the complete surrender of all Argentine forces on these islands. That means all of you, including you, will become prisoners of war."

Gerado shuddered. "I don't want that. Either they put us in a camp -- and who knows what happens to you there -- or they disarm us and load us onto some transport ships back to Argentina, where we'll be received as the great losers. Probably with disgrace and shame, considering how euphoric and triumphant we were when we were sent into this national awakening war three months ago." He rested his elbows on the table, clasped his hands, and then rested his chin on them. He remained silent for a long while, only his flashing eyes betraying his intense thoughts.

Then I couldn't hold back anymore. "What are you thinking about?"

"Hmm. How I could manage to stay here with you. Without getting into trouble with either Argentine or British law." He looked at me with raised eyebrows. "And to be honest, I don't have a real idea. In Argentina, I still have nine months of military service left. And whether the English would allow me to stay here if they turn the Malvinas back into the Falkland Islands -- I strongly doubt that."

I could follow his line of thought clearly and simply. "And what if you just went into hiding? If someone asks, I'll say you went to Port Howard to receive new orders. Then you'd officially be listed as missing."

"Hmm. How would I do that? Whether Argentine or British, they'd probably search your farm first."

"The estate has an old cottage up in the hills, unused for years. It's very secluded and sheltered from bad weather. No windows anymore--they're all boarded up -- but it's dry inside. Tomorrow evening, we could pack some good supplies and hike up there. There's a spring right nearby, so you'd have plenty of fresh water."

Gerado thought about it. "It would be a last resort. But then what? If all our soldiers are taken into captivity, I can't just show up later and pretend the whole war never happened."

"That's true too." Our discussion went in circles. That the short-term solution would turn out to be much simpler than expected -- neither Gerado nor I could have imagined that at the time.

On June 14, 1982, the Argentine Brigadier General and Governor Menendez, against the orders of Argentine President General Galtieri, accepted the British troops' ceasefire terms in Port Stanley -- known to the Argentinians as Puerto Argentino. The terms applied to all of the Falkland Islands, including West Falkland. The war for the Falkland Islands was over.

The news of the war's end was delivered to me by my friend Betty, who showed up completely unexpectedly in her old Land Rover at my farm. I had sent Gerado to hide in the shelter on the ewe pasture just in case.

"The war is over, my dear," Betty called out to me as she got out of her car. "We're free again! And British!" She was absolutely euphoric. "We have our lives back!" Then she threw her arms around me with joy. "The Argentine soldiers are already down at the dock and being taken away by ship somewhere."

Then she jumped back into her car and drove off toward the estate. I slowly walked to the shelter and called out for Gerado, so he wouldn't be startled. He had crouched into a dark corner where even I could barely see him.

"The war is over!" I stretched both hands out to him, pulled him up to me, and hugged him. "And we both survived it unharmed." Then I gave him perhaps the most heartfelt kiss of my life, which he returned just as passionately. It was probably the least romantic place imaginable for it.

"And what happens to me now?" he finally asked.

I smiled at him. "Probably nothing. According to Betty, your soldiers are already boarding a transport ship at our dock." I stepped back and took his hands. "Looks to me like they've forgotten about you."

Gerado shook his head in disbelief. "Excuse me? They just forgot me?" He was stunned. "How can you just forget a soldier?"

I took him by the hand. "That's perfect. We're going into my house now, and you'll lie low there for a few days. I'll try to figure out what to do with you in the future."

That evening, all the Argentine soldiers had indeed left Port Howard in an orderly fashion. British soldiers hadn't shown up yet, so Gerado and I had time to come up with a plan for the future.

Gerado and I spent the whole evening brainstorming, but the results were pretty modest. He summed up our thoughts somewhat resignedly:

"Right now, I only know one thing for sure: going back to Argentina is practically out of the question. I'd definitely end up in prison there. And what those executioners would do to me -- who knows? Too many people have just disappeared in recent years." He suddenly burst out laughing. "Then I'd rather disappear in my own way -- and know that I'm alive."

I was truly alarmed, because up until that point, I had never heard anything about Argentinians disappearing in their own country.

"Then we really only have two options. We find a way for you to stay here permanently. The alternative would be a safe country you could emigrate to and establish a secure life there."

"That would be Germany," Gerado suddenly explained. "My parents talked about it before I was drafted into the military. Since I have two grandfathers who were both German citizens, I could apply for German citizenship. But I've never been there." He shrugged his shoulders. "I want to stay here with you. Even if I had to give up my professional dream to do so."

I was deeply moved by Gerado's indirect declaration of love. He had fallen just as deeply in love with me as I had with him. I stood up, took his hand, and pulled him out of his chair. "We've thought enough for today. Your army has forgotten you! That's a good thing, because I haven't forgotten you."

I gave him the most seductive smile I could manage. "Come, let's stop thinking. Let's love and feel instead. It's so wonderful that you're still with me."

Gerado accepted my invitation. I had the feeling he was relieved not to think about his future anymore, but to enjoy the present instead. The result was a mostly mindless, intense fuck, during which we slammed our hips together and our genitals smacked against each other.

"That was just good," I whispered into his ear, quite sweaty, after our mutual double orgasm.

"Yeah," he replied, still catching his breath, "we both really needed that."

Then we fell asleep in a tight embrace.

I was the first to confide in my best friend Betty, who was almost speechless that the Argentine army had simply left one of their soldiers behind when they marched off into brief captivity as prisoners of war.

"Unbelievable!" she commented on the situation. "But I always had the feeling that the officers -- and probably the non-commissioned officers too -- didn't care at all about their ordinary soldiers." Then she became serious and thought for a moment. "The only possibility I can imagine right now is a marriage between you and Gerado. As far as I know, that would grant him permanent residency rights in the Falkland Islands, possibly even in the entire United Kingdom."

I looked at Betty, absolutely shocked at first. "How am I supposed to just marry a man from Argentina who is eleven years younger than me?"

Betty laughed at me, maybe even a bit mockingly. "Very simple. By ordering your marriage banns. We just need to first check what documents your boyfriend needs for that. That's where I see the big problem. He probably needs his birth certificate. And that's with his parents in Argentina."

"So what do we do now?"

Betty was still smiling. "I'll take care of it. Especially how we can organize such a marriage without the higher authorities getting wind of it beforehand. Once you're properly married, his and your legal status will definitely be much stronger."

Betty left me deep in thought when she said goodbye and I drove up the hill to my farm in my old Land Rover. "Marry Gerado??!!" That thought hammered through my head the entire trip. "I'm a thirty-year-old widow and he's a nineteen-year-old forgotten soldier. How is that supposed to work? Is our young love really strong enough for that?" I was filled with incredible self-doubt.

When I arrived home, I tried not to show anything. I failed, and Gerado straightforwardly asked what was troubling me. "The uncertainty and the unknown about your status," was my evasive answer. "Yesterday, for the first time, a British officer appeared in Port Howard and asked if anyone or anything was harmed during the occupation. Betty and her husband referred to the two Argentine soldiers' graves in our small cemetery. Apart from the two-and-a-half-month shock and the loss of part of our winter supplies, no further damage was done to us. That satisfied the major, and he flew on immediately with his helicopter."

"So no one has spoken to this major about me?"

"For heaven's sake, no. So far, only Betty and her husband James know about your existence here. I also had to talk to them about possible civilian clothes for you. You obviously can't keep walking around here in your uniform."

"That's true. Although our winter army jackets are practically identical to your civilian jackets. We don't even have flag patches on our jackets. And pants and boots are fine here on the farm. I basically just need shirts or T-shirts and civilian sweaters."

I nodded. "I still have some of my late husband's clothes here. You should try if any of them fit you. Ian was about your height but more heavily built. For shirts and sweaters, that might not matter so much."

Indeed, immediately after dinner we looked through my husband's well-packed clothes. Somehow I had suppressed that I had kept practically everything from him. When Gerado put on his Irish favourite sweater -- cream-colored and knit with the typical Irish cable pattern out of sheep's wool -- I suddenly burst into tears, shaking so hard that I had to sit down and cry into Gerado's arms. That sweater, two other sweaters, and both his good and work shirts surprisingly fit Gerado quite well.

My crying fit had miraculously triggered my period early, which meant we had to rearrange our evening plans. But my youthful lover had already developed a passion for my oral lovemaking skills.

"Tonight, I'm going to give you a very special, new lesson," I announced with renewed motivation.

Gerado looked at me with big, childlike eyes. "And what?"

"Wait and follow my instructions. Then it will be an awesome, huge amount of fun for both of us."

I knew that I was able to take a regular 5-inch-cock deep throat, if I was relaxed and had enough time. During my time at Port StanleyI had a boy friend who loved to give me real throat-fucks when I put my head over the bed's edge and stretched my head backwards. This was exactly my plan for tonight with Gerado.

He was a wonderful and skilful pupil. Gerado had stretched himself on his back, which gave me the opportunity to place his best friend into the best possible position. Then I took him step by step into my mouth and deeper and deeper into my much narrower throat. Although Gerado had learned over the past few weeks to have more stamina and to hold himself back, tonight it was too much for him to take. Loudly moaning, then crying, he pressed my head as deep as possible onto his cock and ejected his first load directly into my stomach. After his second shot, I had to pull myself back and wanked him with my hand as long as he was coming. He moaned like an old steam engine.

Oh, that was awesome," he called out to me, still tense. "I've never experienced anything like that before."

By now, I had crawled up alongside him and kissed him with my smeared mouth, a feeling he seemed to have come to love.

"You said this is called 'Deep Throat'. Is it always this intense?"

I smiled at him softly. "Yes. But later we'll try something additional, which might be even more amazing for both of us."

This announcement had an immediate effect. His manhood was ready for action and his second lecture of the day in an instant. I commanded him to stand up and to position himself at the long side of my double bed. Then I placed myself with my back across the bed and put my head over the bed's edge. "Now place your cock into my mouth and follow the push and pull of my hands on your buttcheeks. Slowly and cautious in the beginning, please!" Gerado followed my instruction and it was very easy to direct him. We needed five to six minutes until he understood entirely what I was demanding. Then we had found our rhythm. The result was an absolutely exciting mouth-and-throat fuck. I became so horny that it was enough to clap my clit and my wet pussy only twice, then I exploded into a heavy climax which lifted my entire lower body part straight to orgasm heaven. I didn't lose Gerado's cock from my throat during my climax, which resulted into his second explosion of the day. Explosion was the right word, in the end the surplus of his cum flew out of the corners of my mouth, dripped out of my nostrils and flew over my face and forehead into my hair and on the ground.

This time, a thorough cleaning before the night was absolutely necessary - we were both such a mess. Half an hour later, we were back in my bed, and I was being showered with declarations of love and intimate compliments. Yes, I really liked them.

Betty and her husband took two weeks to complete their investigation through discreet means.

"We believe that an immediate marriage between you two is the quickest and easiest way to solve the problem," they explained to me during a discreet visit to my farm, where they met Gerado in person for the first time since the end of the occupation. "We've spoken with the prefect of St. Mary's Church in Port Stanley. Father Anton, who is responsible for the entire Falkland Islands, is willing to come here and marry you properly. Since Gerado has both his Argentine passport and his military ID, which clearly show his affiliation with the Roman Catholic Church, Father Anton is willing to conduct and certify the marriage even without a birth or baptism certificate. He will obtain those documents later through internal church channels. He will also ensure the civil registration is taken care of with our local civil authorities in Port Stanley."

"And then?"

Betty's husband grinned. "Then you are officially a married couple. And Gerado gains an unrestricted right to reside at his wife's place of residence. What applies in the UK also applies in the Falklands -- even if the husband happens to be a former enemy soldier."

I looked at Gerado, who seemed thunderstruck by our conversation and the administrators' explanation. Such a radical alternative had never even occurred to him. But after a few moments, he fully grasped the meaning of it all. Suddenly, he stood up, walked around the table, and knelt down in front of me.

"Margret MacIntosh, will you be my wife and walk through life with me?"

At first, I just reached out my hand to him -- but then I couldn't help myself and knelt down in front of him as well. "Yes, Gerado. Nothing would make me happier!"

He shrugged helplessly. "I don't have an engagement ring with me. I didn't plan for this when the army sent me here. But I love you more than any man has ever loved a woman."

We embraced deeply and kissed, while Betty and her husband applauded enthusiastically.

With combined effort, the unusual plan succeeded. Port Howard gained a twenty-sixth permanent resident. Happily, there were no objections to our love and our marriage in our small community -- Gerado had earned the friendly respect of all the locals through his work as an interpreter during the occupation.

Epilogue:

The official recognition of our marriage by the government -- and the resulting positive legal consequences -- was a damn obstacle course for Gerado and me. Unlike in Port Howard, the Argentine soldiers had behaved significantly worse in other parts of the Falkland Islands, which naturally provoked emotional reactions. But on our sheep farm, we were entirely dependent on the community of the small town of Port Howard.

The Argentine military dictatorship that had led the country into this war was ousted a year later, and democracy returned. Even so, it took another two years before Gerado's parents finally undertook the complicated journey to Port Howard to visit us for the first time and to meet their daughter-in-law. Until then, Gerado hadn't dared return to Argentina, as he -- justifiably -- feared being arrested for desertion and incomplete military service. His father agreed to handle the legal side of things but also recommended that Gerado apply for a second citizenship as a precaution.

Gerado integrated seamlessly into the life of our small community in Port Howard. He picked up an additional part-time job on the estate, which made it possible for us to afford life on my farm. It wasn't until six years later -- after our friends and neighbours, who had come for his 25th birthday, had left -- that a final glass of red wine brought us back, by chance, to the subject of his youthful dream of becoming a premium winemaker.

"Do you still want to go to a viticulture university and then start your own high-end winery?"

He thought quietly for a while, then nodded. "Yes, I'd love to. But my love for you and our life together is more important to me. And you definitely can't grow wine in Port Howard."

I took a deep breath. "The new owners of the Port Howard Estate have made me a very tempting offer to buy my farm -- with all the land and livestock. If I accept, we'd have the money to make your dream come true. I'd go with you."

Gerado looked at me with the same disbelieving expression he had six years earlier when he found out the Argentine army had simply left him behind. "Really?"

"Yes. Really. If you tell me where the viticulture school is and whether it's legally possible for us to live, study, and work there, I'll do it with you."

"The best university for me -- and for us -- would be in Geisenheim, in Germany. It's in the so-called Rheingau, right by the Rhine River. That's actually where I wanted to go after graduating in Argentina. I'd have to apply for German citizenship, which shouldn't be a problem given my family background. And you have a British passport, so it shouldn't be a problem for you either."

"Then let's go build our future. We'll never get another chance like this in our lives."

The months that followed were a bureaucratic marathon. It took us a year and a half to gather all the documents, paperwork, permits, and Gerado's place at the German university of viticulture. Then we left Port Howard and the Falkland Islands and embarked on the long journey to Germany. We would never return to the islands in the South Atlantic, where a completely unnecessary and senseless war had brought us together by chance.

We, Gerado and Maggie Muller, now sixty and seventy-one years old respectively, run one of the best wineries near Mendoza in Argentina and export our top-quality, award-winning wines all over the world. Our two children, born in Germany, will continue the family tradition.