War and Love - Irish Exile

War and Love - Irish Exile

© JoeMo1619 - July 2025 ff.

Nearby Limerick, Irish Free State, spring and summer 1936

The small steam locomotive slowly pulled our train -- comprising only three carriages -- along the western Irish coastal route from Limerick to Athenry. The next stop was to be Sixmilebridge, where I was to disembark and be met by my relatives and their coachman. "A real coachman," my mother had told me. "Aunt Shauna doesn't own a car. That's still a true rarity in the west of Ireland."

For me, a child of the heavily industrialized Ruhr region, a coach ride seemed like something backward and rural, or something for poor people. For over ten years, our household had considered a stately vehicle with a chauffeur to be perfectly normal, ever since my father had been promoted shortly after the end of the hyperinflation period to coal mine director at the Mont-Cenis colliery in Sodingen near Herne.

I, Michael Bohnkamp, born on November 15th, 1916, the third child and first son of the staunch Westphalian mining engineer Dr. Friedrich Bohnkamp and his Irish-born second wife Mary, had graduated from the Gymnasium in Herne the month before and had voluntarily enlisted in the new German Luftwaffe as a prospective flying officer instead of serving the required term of military service. My physical examination and subsequent suitability tests, all of which I had completed between the written and oral final exams, had been passed successfully. I had received my draft notice for October 1st, 1936.

We hadn't discussed for long at home what would be a sensible way to spend the half-year between school and military service. "As you know, Uncle Patrick died in a fatal accident at the beginning of the year," my mother explained. "My sister Shauna, now running an all-female household, has her hands full and urgently needs some male help from the family. Do yourself and the family a favour and go spend six months with her."

My father had chimed in encouragingly. "Your English in school was decent. But it doesn't hurt to spend some time talking with native speakers who don't speak a word of German."

My mother had laughed at that. "I suspect that Shauna's family will deliberately speak Gaelic, not English. After all, we're all Republicans."

"Then the boy will just learn Gaelic, too. Can't hurt either."

And so, two weeks before Easter, I took the train to the Belgian Channel coast, then from Folkestone to Holyhead on the northwest tip of Wales, and, after another ferry crossing, from Dublin to Limerick. Now, as I sat on the last leg of my train journey, I was completely exhausted and worn out after three days of travel.

I had met my late uncle and my aunt along with my four cousins in person for the first time a year earlier, at the silver wedding anniversary celebration of my parents.

Aunt Shauna was six years younger than my mother, and my four cousins were now between nineteen and twelve years old. Until then, I had taken relatively little interest in the Irish branch of the family. I only really knew that the Richardson family -- my mother's maiden name -- had been politically and militarily active in the Irish independence movement for several generations. My grandfather Charles, a foundry engineer by profession, had been a prominent member of the Irish Parliamentary Party and had emigrated to the Ruhr area at the end of the previous century after being arrested twice by the very British police in Ireland. There, he had run a large iron foundry in Gelsenkirchen for many years. In 1910, he returned to Ireland with his wife and younger children -- primarily for political reasons -- and, with the support of his German foundry-owning partner, established his own foundry there. During his work with the new radical Sinn Féin party, he met Patrick Keane, who married my aunt shortly before the outbreak of the First World War. During the Easter Rising of 1916 and the civil war in the early 1920s, my uncle was initially on the losing radical Irish side as a member of the IRA, but then joined Éamon de Valera, who had fled into exile in the U. S. and who, in 1926, founded the Fianna Fáil party -- a new political movement aiming for full Irish independence through democratic means. Patrick Keane was elected to the Irish Parliament in the major Fianna Fáil victory of 1932 and remained a prominent politician until his accidental death. I didn't know much more, but from the aforementioned silver anniversary celebration, I knew that my two older cousins, who were one year older and one year younger than me respectively, were extremely sweet and attractive girls.

It was exactly those two cousins, Riona and Sinéad, who greeted me at the station along with the coachman. The roughly five-mile coach ride was accompanied by somewhat awkward conversation in English, and I wasn't sure who of us was less fluent in this language that was foreign to all three of us. Aunt Shauna really did look like my mother, with her reddish-blonde hair, which immediately gave me the feeling of having arrived in a kind of second home. She was still wearing mourning clothes four months after her husband's death but didn't seem particularly weighed down by grief.

The following weeks unfolded like a dream for a boy from an industrial metropolis. Of course, the everyday work on my aunt's large farm was certainly demanding, but the family didn't belong to the rural peasantry--they were part of the small landowner class. I quickly learned to ride a horse so I could move about the farm efficiently. I witnessed the birth of numerous lambs and some calves, which to the amusement of my cousins was completely unfamiliar to me. And from the very first Sunday, I realized that the Catholic Church, its priests, and congregations in Ireland were entirely different from those in the Westphalian Ruhr area.

Naturally, my two cousins had a nearly magical allure for me. Both had finished school a few years earlier and were helping their widowed mother run the farm. This wasn't just girls' work -- Irish farms weren't luxurious estates, and during peak times, every available hand was needed.

"Otherwise, we're just waiting for our husbands," said Riona with a bit of irreverence. "Some say the sooner, the better. But honestly, I want something better. After all, I'm the heiress to this estate because I have no brother. So, I think I'm entitled to make some demands. Sinéad and the little ones will surely have it harder."

Riona was by far the most outgoing of my cousins. Sinéad still had a virginal innocence about her, even in her thoughts. But Riona seemed to know quite a bit more. It was already midsummer when we took a ride and stopped to rest by one of the small lakes in the area. "It's so incredibly hot today," Riona sighed as we sat side by side on a log at the lake's edge -- sitting closer than might have been considered proper. Suddenly she stood up and started to strip herself down. "I have to refresh myself in this lake," was her explanation during her lavishly striptease. "Come on, you should follow my lead, Michael."

I looked at her, at first, quite astonished. We, the German youth, had by then developed -- through the Hitler Youth and the League of German Girls -- a view of the human body and nudity that was very frivolous and immoral by Irish-Catholic standards. But the fact that my cousin, who was a year older than me, undressed completely without hesitation right next to me -- that really shocked me.

"What's the matter? Are you shy?" was Riona's rather provocative question. "Hurry up! I don't want to bathe alone."

That was the deciding factor. In the end, I was even a few seconds ahead of her in the refreshingly cool water. At first, we splashed around like two crazy people, swam a few meters, and then swam back far enough so that we could stand. Riona swam toward me like a predator fish and then stopped right in front of me. Then she hugged me, pressed her apple-shaped breasts -- with nipples made rock hard by the water -- against my chest, and kissed me. A real revelation, which, of course, immediately caused a reaction in my lower body.

Riona looked at me intensively with her deep-green eyes. She seemed excited about my malehood reaction, my meanwhile rock-hard cock pressed against her belly. "Irish girl are Catholics and marry as virgins," was her cynical sounding comment.

I grunted some inaudible answer. This Irish girl animated me much more than I would have expected after her strict Catholic upbringing and education.

Riona bit into my earlobe, which resulted into some goose bumps all over my body. "But Irish girls know exactly what they have to do to get some fun. And some satisfaction." She laughed really seductive. "Sin is sin, and I will be condemned to hell, guaranteed. But until then, I want to enjoy as much fun as possible."

She grabbed my cock, pulled my foreskin back with one sharp move and started to wank me strongly. I closed my eyes and enjoyed her rough treatment. I wasn't innocent anymore, but far away to be an experienced lover. Which was almost impossible for a high School graduate.

"Women have two entrances," whispered Riona suddenly into my ear. "And my backdoor entrance has the huge advantage that it doesn't ruin my virginity and can't result in pregnancy." She looked at me like a staff sergeant and gave me a very clear command: "Push your fingers into my arsehole. Start with one and then more and more. If you can penetrate me with your three middle fingers without any problems, take your cock and push it into me." Finishing her command, she walked few steps to the shallow waterside without losing her grip on my cock, knelt down and hold out her shining arse towards me. "Come on! I want to feel you inside me!"

The wildest thoughts buzzed through my mind. But I recognized rapidly that Riona demanded exactly this treatment. And the effect on my manhood was phenomenal. "I believe my cock was never so large and hard," I whispered from her back into her ear.

"Then we are well-prepared. Your fingers have done an excellent job. Now come!"

I placed my cock's tip at her pink rosette. To my amazement, Riona pressed her body directly against my slowly penetrating cock. I needed only three advancing attempts to pass her muscular entrance ring, then I was deep inside her.

It was obvious that Riona had some experience with anal sex, something I heard from very little before. Now, at the shallow waterside of an Irish lake, I fucked my cousin with full commitment into her arsehole. The pressure of her narrow backdoor entrance on my unexperienced cock was rapidly too strong for me. Very soon I felt the increasing pressure of my cum. Two advances later, I moaned very loudly, then I pumped my cream deep into her gut. Riona shivered with her entire body, cried loud and without any hesitation and shook her head powerful from left to right and back. In my young life, I had never experienced such an orgasm from my sex partner.

It took us a little while to calm down. "Let's dive in completely one more time and clean ourselves up. It's refreshing and avoids any awkward questions."

Half an hour later, we arrived back at the farm just in time for dinner, freshened up, changed clothes, and enjoyed a refreshing summer soup after the table prayer.

Riona and I regularly repeated our sex game. When we had more time, she would first jerk me off to get the first load out, taking royal delight in having me shoot across her breasts before properly massaging in my semen. "The big advantage is that you last much longer afterward," was her simple but absolutely accurate comment. "And I'm not confessing our game to the priest. It's none of his business. And if God sees us, he can form his own opinion." She was incredibly self-confident.

My Irish summer ended on September 20th. A week before that, we had attended a wedding of some distant cousins. There, I had danced and enjoyed myself with Riona, but also with Sinéad, my aunt, and a number of young women I hadn't known until then. After that, Riona and I only had time once more to ride out to our lake and enjoy each other's company. The water was already damn cold, so we limited the "cleansing afterward" to an absolute minimum.

In one thing, however, my father had indeed been right: my spoken English had improved significantly, though now I had a western Irish accent, which I actually found quite attractive. I had also learned a bit of Gaelic. During the return trip, I let all the experiences of those nearly six months play out in my mind's eye. I could never have guessed that this summer stay, between high school graduation and joining the air force academy, would later first save my life and then fundamentally change it.

Back in the Ruhr area, I had just enough time to wash and sort my laundry and pack my things. On Thursday, October 1st, 1936, I reported to my assigned post in Dresden and began my two-year training to become a Luftwaffe pilot and officer.

During those two years of training -- during which I only rarely returned home for short leave -- I heard only three things from Ireland:

Riona's wedding in the summer of 1937 to the eldest son of a respected and apparently wealthy merchant family from Limerick, who also had aviation interests for fast cargo transport by air freight and operated a terminal for the large transatlantic flying boats on the Shannon River; The final independence of the Republic of Ireland at the end of 1937, following a majority in a national referendum; The wedding of the now apparently more mature Sinéad in the spring of 1939; the groom came from a family of shipowners and shipbuilders from Galway.

I wrote personal congratulatory letters for both weddings, which were kindly answered shortly afterward. Then, for a few years, I heard nothing more from or about our Irish relatives.

The Luftwaffe preferred that its young officer pilots not be married. In that respect, I was free to enjoy a few romantic affairs, which also noticeably broadened my sexual experiences. However, I never again had the pleasure of satisfying a woman anally. The German girls wanted proper intercourse. After all, the motto "I give the Führer a child" had already taken hold in the BDM (League of German Girls).

Airfield of a German Luftwaffe bomber wing near the Dutch North Sea coast, Spring 1941

I had successfully embarked on my dream career in the new German Luftwaffe. After two years of service and practically continuous training, I was promoted to lieutenant on October 1, 1938 -- forty-eight hours after the conclusion of the Munich Agreement, which had halted the imminent outbreak of a European war. With this promotion began my third year of training, centred at a specialized Luftwaffe flying school, where we were to earn the so-called C-license for flying large, multi-engine aircraft. This training was supposed to be completed by September 1939, and -- if successful -- I would be assigned to a bomber wing as a pilot.

Despite the tough and undeniably dangerous training -- the Luftwaffe lost more than 200 pilot trainees per year due to accidents of various kinds, largely caused by poor training standards -- the atmosphere at our school was incredibly good. Practically all my comrades were of the same age and had grown up under the Nazi regime. Like me, most had been active in the Hitler Youth's aviation wing. We had witnessed Germany's economic upswing firsthand, watched as employment returned, and personally experienced the massive rearmament of the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe through our voluntary service. We followed the political and military leadership practically without question. When I returned home to Sodingen in my brand-new Luftwaffe lieutenant's uniform in October 1938, half the neighbourhood came out to greet me. The red, revolutionary, and deeply Catholic Ruhr area that I had known until I was sixteen no longer existed in that form. Many people in my hometown had followed the seemingly utopian successes of Adolf Hitler and his followers with more or less euphoric support. His recent political coups -- the annexation of Austria in March and the return of the Sudetenland to the Reich -- had significantly contributed to this change in sentiment. Only in my own family home was the enthusiasm limited. While both my older sisters had become more or less ardent Nazi mothers after their respective marriages, and my younger brother had also volunteered for the Wehrmacht, my mother remained strictly Catholic, and my father -- now nearly sixty, silver-haired from the stress of his daily work as a director at his notoriously harsh coal mine -- had become reserved and sceptical.

"Son," he said to me one quiet evening, "the Führer wants to lead the Reich into a war with our old enemies, both in the East and the West. To me, it's only a matter of time. And then I, who never served at the front in the Great War but faced similar dangers here mining coal, will have two sons voluntarily serving in the Luftwaffe and the Army." He fell silent for a long time before adding, "If you and your brother ever need a way out, remember that you are fifty percent Irish. Republican Irish!" He took a deep swig from his beer mug and looked me straight in the eyes. "As sons of an Irish mother, you have a constitutional right to Irish citizenship."

I looked at my father, more than a little confused. I was sitting in his office in a Luftwaffe officer's uniform, and he was talking about escape options. But I knew that my father -- who could be loud and authoritarian at his coal mine -- was at heart a well-read and thoughtful man, someone who could think far ahead both technically and economically. So I replied simply, "Thanks, Father, for the advice." I grinned. "Ireland really is beautiful. So green and clean."

A smile crossed his face. "We could use a bit of Irish air here in Herne and Sodingen. Then we wouldn't have to dust the windowsills twice a day."

We toasted each other, and that ended the disrespectful topic.

Just under a year later, on September 1st, 1939, my father's prediction came true. Adolf Hitler and the German Wehrmacht, with all its branches, began the invasion of Poland and triggered yet another great European war. Our third year of training had already been shortened by six weeks in mid-August, and we had received our deployment orders to bomber wings. When the attack on Poland began, I was on a train to Upper Silesia, where I was to report to my new airbase west of Gleiwitz. I was now a trained and licensed bomber pilot for twin-engine bombers, primarily trained on the twin-engine Heinkel He 111, which had a distinctive glass nose.

There was little time to get settled in. Five days after reporting to the wing commander's office, I was in the cockpit of a Heinkel bomber for the first time, with my navigator seated beside me and the other three crew members manning the machine guns for air defence. But we flew to our target in an industrial area of Poland practically unchallenged. After just five days of war, the Polish Air Force with its outdated planes and weak infrastructure had been virtually wiped out. The Luftwaffe had near-total air superiority. Between September 6th and 26th, I flew sixteen missions with my crew -- an incredibly high number for a pilot. But with mostly clear weather and practically no enemy resistance, the missions felt almost like training flights. For the first time, I could apply the skills I had acquired over three years in actual military operations. Only one rough landing during a thunderstorm posed any real danger. One of our squadron mates botched a landing in the same storm, and two crew members died in the crash. They were the only casualties our squadron suffered in the entire Polish campaign.

In early October, our entire wing was relocated to Western Germany, where we remained on standby throughout the winter, flying very few missions. During the unexpected Denmark and Norway campaigns in April 1940, we flew only once -- to central Norway, without bombs, to deliver supplies to rapidly advancing ground forces. But we were heavily involved again as bomber squadrons when the French campaign began on May 10th. We sometimes flew missions three days in a row, until our aircraft were so worn out they had to be grounded for several days of maintenance and repair. It was during these operations that we learned the Heinkel He 111 was remarkably durable -- it could take a lot of hits without losing its basic flight capabilities. It was astonishing what wrecks some pilots managed to return home with. Even crash or emergency landings due to landing gear damage often ended with only minor injuries to the crew.

After the successful occupation of Belgium, the Netherlands, and northern France, we moved our base to southern Holland and took part in the final phase of the French campaign. Then things quieted down as our wing was replenished with new aircraft and additional pilots and crews. I was granted ten days' home leave at the end of June, followed by a six-week course to train as a squadron leader.

That home leave remains etched in my memory for one particular reason. My parents were proud of their son and his successful career as a Luftwaffe officer. But like all parents, they were worried about the health and survival of their children. So it wasn't entirely surprising when, after Sunday Mass -- which they still attended regularly -- they asked to speak with me in my father's home office.

"You may not understand this in light of all the recent successes," my now sixty-year-old father began, "but life experience -- and the experience of previous wars -- teaches us that you must always keep your options open, for your protection and that of your family."

I looked at him rather blankly. "Meaning what?"

"We're at war with England, perhaps our last remaining enemy. I'm certain the Führer will focus the Wehrmacht and especially the Luftwaffe's strength on this final foe."

"I assume that as well," I confirmed.

"We would very much prefer not to see our son end up in British captivity if something went wrong during a future mission over England."

I responded a bit irritably. "Father, we have excellent fighter escort, as we saw in the last campaign." My father must have clearly heard the arrogance in the voice of a 'successful' Luftwaffe officer.

"I'm sure you do. But you never know. You're probably one of the few Luftwaffe officers who speaks decent English -- with an Irish accent no less, which no German could fake. That's why your mother, through her sister Shauna and with the help of the local priest, has obtained an Irish birth certificate for you." My father laid the document on the table. "Your mother was baptized in that church you remember from your summer in Ireland. So, the Richardson family is registered there, including all family members. As you may know, all children of men and women born in Ireland are automatically entitled to citizenship of the Republic of Ireland. If you didn't know that, now you do. Understood?"

I still looked confused.

"Let me be clear," my father continued. "Your mother and I want you to carry this Irish birth certificate with you on every mission over England, tucked inside your personal military ID book. So that you can pose as an Irishman in an emergency. Now do you understand?" That was a direct order from a mine director who expected obedience -- whether from a miner or a family member.

"Yes, Father." I accepted the Irish birth certificate. It was issued in my real name, with the correct birthdate and the right parents -- only the place of birth and church had been shifted a thousand miles to the west. I folded the certificate to the proper size and tucked it into the back flap of my military ID book with my other personal papers. Then I forgot about it for the next ten months.

Due to the training course, I didn't return to my unit until late August, by which time it was flying almost daily missions against London and other targets in southeast England. Daylight raids at first on military targets, then, starting in early September, night raids on London and other cities. My crew and I flew between fifteen and twenty missions a month. We had settled into a rhythm of fly-eat-sleep-fly, which was physically and mentally exhausting. In winter, bad weather often made flights and landings especially difficult. Among my comrades and other crews, I had a reputation for being lucky. Despite all the missions, I lost only two gunners to enemy fire and always managed to bring my Heinkel He 111 back -- sometimes shot to pieces, running on one engine, limping home solo. One emergency crash landing just behind the southern Dutch coastal dunes ended without serious harm to me or my crew. "It was a pure miracle we managed to stay in the air that long," I reported in the debriefing when the plane was written off and mechanics were sent to salvage it.

In the Battle of Britain, I lost many flying comrades to enemy fire, injuries during missions, or crash landings -- including many experienced pilots who had completed training before the war. Their replacements were often barely trained greenhorns with big mouths and reckless bravery, which pushed our casualty rates even higher. By now promoted to first lieutenant, I usually flew second in our squadron formation and often returned with only two-thirds of our aircraft.

In May 1941, we received orders for a multi-day sustained attack on the port, docks, and city of Liverpool. For our Heinkel bombers, this meant a round trip of more than 1,400 kilometres -- nearing the limits of our range, especially when carrying a full bomb load. On my night missions on May 2nd and 4th, we suffered significant losses due to British fighters and heavy anti-aircraft fire, but my aircraft came through relatively unscathed. Only minor repairs were needed, though a lot of maintenance had to be done between missions. My ground crew were true experts.

On May 6th, 1941, we were once again part of a nightly attacking bomber fleet of more than 500 aircraft. The resistance, especially from the anti-aircraft fire, was again massive. That night, shortly after 1 a. m., my flying luck came to an end.

One after another, we lost the port engine and the main rudder due to flak hits -- a nearly impossible flying challenge. But what weighted much more heavily was the fuel consumption, which was far beyond normal levels.

With only one engine, I was no longer able to maintain my position in the formation. I was forced to report out and peel away from the group.

"Michael," my navigator Fritze Timmhoff suddenly said -- he was from Sodingen like me and had flown by my side for more than a year -- "we'll never make it home with the fuel we have left in the tanks!" He looked at his map and made some calculations. "Even if we transfer fuel between tanks and fly slowly -- after all, we only have one working propeller -- we'll run out of fuel over the English North Sea coast. If not earlier."

"And at our slow speed, I'll be flying like a sitting duck into the dawn, easy prey for any fighter. Without a rudder, I can't even dodge." I think, Fritze had never heard me so helpless before.

"I don't want to fall into English captivity," Fritze suddenly said, his voice trembling. "But I don't want to drown either."

I remained silent at first. Our three other crew members were at their posts, ready to shoot at any attacking fighter. But except for the droning starboard engine, there was total silence since we had left the formation. And we were still flying westward because with one engine and no main rudder, I would have had massive problems changing course. But at least our Heinkel was maintaining altitude without further issues.

"Fritze, how far is it from our current position west of Liverpool to Dublin?" My question broke the monotonous engine noise.

"What? Dublin? In Ireland?"

"Exactly that!"

Fritze unfolded his map, measured the distance, and calculated the scale. "About 200 kilometres."

"Do we have enough fuel to reach the Irish coast?"

"I need to calculate." There was a moment of silence, then his answer: "The way we're flying now, we can go about 300 kilometres. Just as you suspected. We couldn't leave England with this machine."

"Unless it's to the west. The added benefit is that we'll cross the Irish Sea entirely in darkness, even at our slow speed, and reach the island at dawn."

"True." Fritze's agreement came with an unspoken question. "And then?"

"I'll fly the Heinkel inland, keep it at a good altitude, and then we'll bail out one after the other. A crash landing would be pointless -- the land is crisscrossed with hedges; there's no suitable area for an emergency landing."

"Alright, let's do that. I'll calculate the course."

While Fritze did the maths, I informed the three other crew members via intercom: "We have no chance of making it home. I'm flying the plane to Ireland. We'll jump out at the right altitude. Ireland is neutral, and I can tell you from experience -- they don't like the English." I gave the men a contact address in Dublin where they could discreetly report in. It was a Catholic rectory.

At first, the execution of my plan went surprisingly smoothly. Our lone incoming aircraft apparently wasn't recognized -- no planes showed up to intercept our sluggish Heinkel. I passed the Irish capital at a safe distance, and fifteen minutes later, I had the doomed bomber at the right altitude and gave the order to jump. The three gunners went first, followed by Fritze, to whom I wished good luck in person. Once all four had left, I locked the control stick, unbuckled from my seat, secured my clothing, and exited the still-forward-flying aircraft last. In the early dawn, I saw my pilotless bomber disappear westward from under my parachute.

Until that moment, I believed our plan to escape English captivity and return to the Reich via back channels was going to work. But only moments later, my problems began. Our emergency parachutes couldn't be steered at all. Wherever fall speed and wind carried you -- that's where you landed. I had completed five conventional jumps during my training and learned the falling techniques for rolling on impact. But I was not trained to land on the slightly sloping roof of a barn, still dim in the early light.

It made a tremendous crash when I hit the roof at still considerable speed, fell lengthwise, began to roll or slide, then tipped over the gutter and came to a sudden halt about a meter above the ground. My parachute had snagged somewhere above me, abruptly stopping my fall. Now I was hanging like a marionette in the air -- my left arm was in agonizing pain, as was my lower ribcage. Every breath in this awkward position hurt terribly.

Some livestock on the small farm where I had landed raised a loud alarm -- most notably some incredibly loud geese. Then I heard voices, and moments later I was staring into two double-barrelled shotguns held by an older man and a young girl.

"What is this?" the old man shouted in English. "Who are you?"

In that second, I had what was probably a life-saving flash of inspiration. I answered in Gaelic, gave my name, and said I had jumped with my parachute from a crashing aircraft. "I need your help, please. Cut me down from my parachute first." A little later, I added, "I'm badly injured," which finally spurred the father and daughter into action. The old man fetched a ladder and some tools, leaned it against the barn wall, and slowly cut me free rope by rope. Meanwhile, his daughter kept the weapon trained on me. This method had the advantage of allowing me to descend the last meter in small steps, and after what felt like an eternity, I finally stood on the ground.

"Weapons?" the old farmer asked sharply in Gaelic, and I willingly handed him my pistol. Then I hobbled slowly to the small farm cottage. Every step and every breath hurt, and my left arm was in agony.

In the typical cottage kitchen, the farmer motioned me to a chair and looked at me thoughtfully. "German?" he suddenly asked in English.

I nodded. "And why do you speak Gaelic?"

"My mother is Irish born -- she came from near Sixmilebridge in County Clare."

"Hm," the farmer grunted and looked at me again thoughtfully. "A German officer with an Irish mother." He chuckled softly, almost slyly. "We both don't like the English." Then he turned to his daughter, who still held the shotgun. "Put on some water. We need a good tea. And probably some boiled water for our pilot here." Then he turned back to me. "What was your mother's maiden name?"

"Mary Richardson. Her sister Shauna was married to a Patrick Keane. She's now a widow -- my uncle died in an accident some time ago."

"That Patrick Keane?" The farmer suddenly looked very alert. "The Fianna Fáil MD and former IRA leader?"

I was absolutely stunned by his reaction, which set off alarm bells in me despite the pain. Hesitantly I replied, "Yes."

Suddenly, the entire atmosphere in the kitchen changed. The farmer stood up, came over to me, and hugged me. I was more than surprised.

"Patrick Keane's nephew is flying a German plane in the war against the English and is landing on my barn's roof. Incredible!"

He hugged me again and kissed me on the right cheek. Given my rib and breathing pain, I involuntarily groaned, which immediately brought a worried expression to the farmer's face.

"Where does it hurt?"

I explained my pain and that I could only move my left arm with great agony.

The farmer thought briefly, then ordered his daughter to put the weapon away and ride immediately to the nearest village to fetch the local doctor and the parish priest. "Gwen, tell them Patrick Keane's nephew is injured on my farm and needs help right away," he told her as she sped off.

Once Gwen was gone, the farmer made us tea and handed me a cup. "Maybe I should tell you where fate has landed you," he grinned, kindly switching back to English, though with a strong Irish accent. "Patrick Keane was my commander during the Civil War. We fought on the Sinn Féin side for full independence. But like him, I joined Fianna Fáil after the republican split. And we achieved our goal of Irish independence four years ago." He leaned back and raised his teapot like a toast. "Our doctor, Dr. O'Connell, and our priest, Father O'Leary, are part of our political circle. You can trust them. None of us will hand you over to the English."

My head was spinning. No one should have this much luck in war. And now I was sitting in the kitchen of a small farm cottage in the middle of Ireland, with the divine luck of having found friends and helpers who even knew my family.

I don't know how long I spoke to the farmer, who by then had introduced himself as Conor Flynn. My pain was still there, but the tea, the kindness, and the sense of safety were real pain relievers. Finally, I heard the sound of a car arriving. "The doctor drives one of the few automobiles in our county," Conor said just before the two men and his daughter entered the kitchen again. Conor briefly explained the situation. At the mention of my uncle's name, both men suddenly smiled very kindly at me.

"Then let's give the young pilot a thorough examination," announced Dr. O'Connell, shooing Conor's daughter out of the kitchen. My arm and lower chest didn't please the doctor at all. "The rest probably just bruises and sprains," was his conclusion. "Hurts like hell, but that's not the problem. I really don't like the arm and ribs. We'll have to X-ray that at the hospital in Tullamore."

At least now I knew roughly where in Ireland I had landed.

The doctor stood up and looked at Conor. "We should leave our friend's uniform jacket here. All his papers, too." He looked at me. "I think I'll drive you to the hospital myself. That way, no unnecessary questions will be asked. What's your name, anyway?"

"Michael Bohnkamp."

"Uhhhh. That's too German. What was your mother's maiden name?"

"Richardson."

"That's better. So, Michael Richardson, leave your uniform jacket behind. Conor will lend you one of his. You're about the same size. Then we'll head straight to the hospital." He looked over at the priest. "Are you staying or coming along?"

"I think I'll come. If anyone asks stupid questions, I'll have suitable answers."

So, the three of us drove the few miles along narrow roads lined with green hedges to Tullamore. The doctor's fears were confirmed. I had a double fracture in my left forearm and two broken ribs, along with several bruised ones -- thankfully without any immediate threat to my lungs.

"It'll be a while before you're fit for duty again," the doctor noted after my arm was in a cast and I had a support bandage around my lower chest.

"Can you take care of our young friend and nurse him back to health?" he asked the farmer when we returned.

"Of course, Doctor. Just like before. He needs to recover before he can go back to fighting the English."

Dr. O'Connell grinned. "Exactly. Let Gwen take care of him. Nursing is women's work."

With that, I was provisionally safe and accepted into the Flynn household. My nurse, Gwen Flynn, had just turned eighteen. Since her mother had died young, she was the only woman in the house and was awaiting her destiny.

The next four weeks followed a uniform but terribly monotonous rhythm. Gwen took excellent care of me, handling my chest bandage exactly as the doctor instructed. She was shy but kind toward me, though she kept a noticeable distance. Strictly Catholic, she followed all her church obligations.

"I was eager to join a convent," she confided after a few weeks. "But my mother died in childbirth with my sister. My father managed alone for a few years, but after my First Communion, I gradually grew into the role of housekeeper. I can't leave -- my father won't remarry, he needs me."

With that, I pulled myself together and made no further advances, even though it was difficult. Gwen was stunningly beautiful. But she always seemed a little sad, as if life hadn't turned out the way she'd hoped.

After four weeks, Dr. O'Connell removed my cast and checked the healing with a second X-ray. He was satisfied and showed me the image to explain. I was then given a lighter bandage for another two weeks to support the arm. At least now I could help Conor a little -- instead of being just an injured and useless extra mouth to feed.

"What do you plan to do once the bandage comes off and you're a full man again?" Conor asked one late June evening as we sat smoking outside his cottage.

"I've considered two options," I shared my thoughts. "I could try to make it to the contact point in Dublin, which would somehow get me back to Germany. But that's supposed to be dangerous -- English spies are probably watching the contact."

Conor grinned. "That's what the English did to us for decades. They're pretty good at surveillance. And once they catch you, they'll take you to Northern Ireland, lock you up, interrogate you, and probably send you to some camp -- maybe even overseas."

"That's my fear too. The alternative is to go to my aunt's family near Sixmilebridge and figure out from there how to return to the Continent."

"Definitely the better option," Conor agreed. He thought silently for a good ten minutes. "Once your bandage is off, we'll have Father O'Leary dress you in civilian clothes," he said at last. "Then I'll buy you a ticket to Sixmilebridge, and you'll be on your way." He took a deep swig of his beer and looked at me thoughtfully. "If I may offer advice as an old Republican soldier," he said slowly. "You have Irish Republican blood in you and you're a well-trained pilot officer. The Republic doesn't have many men with your skills. Think carefully if you really want to leave Ireland. If you or your aunt need help to quietly establish yourself here and find work, you can count on us in Tullamore."

I acknowledged his words and generous offer gratefully. But even later, lying in bed, I hesitated. "If I disappear here in Ireland, that's outright desertion," I muttered before falling asleep. "And that would be absolutely dishonourable."

I still had that thought the next morning. But I had at least made a temporary decision. "I'll go to my aunt first and plan my next steps from there," I told Conor.

"Excellent," he agreed, unusually cheerfully for him. "Absolutely the right decision. I'll take care of everything right away."

Conor kept his word. On June 19th, Dr. O'Connell and Conor Flynn took me together to the train station in Tullamore and stood on the platform like old friends until my train departed. I travelled to Sixmilebridge for the second time in my life, with a single suit from the church, German military boots, and my pilot's uniform as my only luggage.

For safety, I had sent my aunt a postcard just days earlier. The message was simple and innocuous: "Your nephew Michael will visit you on June 19th. I'll arrive by train at 2:35 p. m. in Sixmilebridge." Now I was curious to see what -- and who -- would await me.

Upon arrival in Sixmilebridge, I saw no familiar faces. Only once the train had departed and the platform emptied did a young woman with long red hair braided into two plaits appear at the entrance. We glanced at each other briefly, then she spoke.

"Michael? Aunt Mary's son?"

I nodded and approached her. She was dressed in a riding outfit and extended her hand. "Eireen Keane, your youngest cousin." She saw my surprise -- I remembered her as a thirteen-year-old girl. "I've changed a bit since then," she smiled.

"Unbelievable!" I finally found my words. "Eileen! I really wouldn't have recognized you." I held back further compliments -- it wasn't the right time.

"I brought two horses," she said, pointing to the two brown ones waiting by the station side entrance. "Petrol is rationed and horribly expensive, so we're not driving much right now."

"That's fine. I used to ride out with your sister almost every day. I'm a bit out of practice, but I'll manage."

And I did. After a pleasant ride through the summer countryside of County Clare, we arrived three-quarters of an hour later at Aunt Shauna's farm.

"This really is absolute peace," I said after my aunt's warm welcome.

At first, I thought she was still in mourning, but in the sunlight, her old-fashioned dress revealed itself to be dark green, not black -- a clever compromise.

"We've had enough wars of our own," she replied cautiously. "I've often feared for Patrick when I knew the IRA had another mission against the English. The civil war was even worse -- just a grey, invisible front, like a constant fog. Too many people were killed on their farms, in their homes, on both sides."

My aunt had brought teatime forward and invited me to her sitting room. She questioned me like a military interrogator about my two years of war experience, special events, my parents, and siblings. "Still unmarried?" she suddenly asked.

"Yes. The Luftwaffe prefers single junior officers."

"And you stuck to that?"

I grinned. "In principle, yes. But in Germany -- especially around the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe -- the customs and morals aren't quite as strict as here."

"I see." She caught the layers of my answer immediately. "Soldiers have always lived differently. Even here." She gave me a penetrating look. "But here is peace. And hopefully it stays that way."

I understood her quiet message.

Our conversation turned to the family's Irish situation. "Riona and Sinéad married before your war started. Both have a healthy daughter, and Sinéad is expecting her second child. Keeva joined a convent and is training as a nurse." She looked at her youngest. "And Eileen has grown up too. We'll see what the future holds for her."

At dinner, my aunt became more curious. "I'm so happy to have you here, safe and healed. I imagine Mary is terribly worried about you. How should I write to her that you're safe and we're taking care of you?"

I thought for a moment -- I still wanted to stay anonymous until I knew how I'd return to the Continent. "Just write that your nephew has come to help on the farm and will be supporting you for now. You can add that he's strong and healthy and very welcome."

Shauna grinned. "Your parents will understand that right away. And to give the censors more work, I'll write it in Gaelic. Mary can translate it for your father."

"How do you even send mail to Germany?"

"Not sure. I think it goes through Spain or Portugal. Takes a while -- her last letter took almost a month. But we're neutral -- that has its advantages."

Her letter actually arrived in Sodingen, as we learned from a reply postcard that arrived in early August. The carefully worded message made it clear my parents were well and happy to hear about Shauna's nephew visiting. But by the time this postcard reached the west Irish farm, the world and the war had changed fundamentally. Just two days after my arrival, the Wehrmacht had invaded the Soviet Union with millions of troops -- advancing deeper every day into Russia and Ukraine.

Shauna had long subscribed to the Irish Times. "Patrick always said you must read the enemy's press too," she told me. For me, this newspaper -- with its U. S. journalist partnerships -- was a revelation. Its style and depth were unlike anything I'd encountered in Germany. And despite the Wehrmacht's apparent successes, many reports gave me pause. By mid-July, I was questioning daily whether I really wanted to return to Germany and join the war against the "heart of all evil" -- the communist Soviet Union.

My aunt watched my brooding with great sensitivity. She was further motivated by a second postcard from my mother, which she wisely withheld. I didn't see it until many years later. In it, my mother had written -- more or less explicitly -- that Shauna should keep me in Ireland under any circumstance.

In mid-August, my aunt celebrated her 45th birthday on a Sunday. For the occasion, she invited her three daughters and their families to the farmhouse for a Sunday roast and a birthday celebration. In the invitation, she informed them of my presence for the first time and gave clear instructions: "I will introduce Michael as my second cousin, helping on the farm. Please, don't mention where he's from. English ears are everywhere."

Accordingly, my cousins greeted me politely when we met in front of the village church -- for the first time in five years. Only Riona couldn't resist saying, "Oh my God, you've become a real man." My aunt introduced me formally to her sons-in-law, who eyed me curiously. But my unmistakable Irish accent in English removed all suspicion.

"Have you been to America?" Riona's husband Liam Doyle asked me. He was involved in business with many Americans through the family company.

"Unfortunately, no," I answered honestly. "I've spent the last few years in Iraq and the Middle East, flying mail and other air freight for oil companies." That was the cover story my aunt and I had come up with to answer curious questions with at least some credibility.

Liam raised his eyebrows. "You're a real pilot? What kind of planes did you fly?"

"Single-engine, and more recently twin-engine, since they can carry more cargo." I named a few common, somewhat older British models that I assumed were used in aviation in that region.

Liam seemed to like my answer. "Ever flown a seaplane?"

"Sadly, no. Must be quite the experience, taking off and landing with those huge things."

"It is." He smiled at me. "I can't fly myself, but our company runs a supply terminal for the American Clipper seaplanes on the Shannon River, and an air freight terminal at Shannon Airport. It's amazing how much cargo the Americans can fly across the Atlantic with those seaplanes. The loads are unloaded, stored, sorted, and then flown on to England with regular aircraft."

"A profitable business for you?"

"Oh yes," Liam laughed. "It's the fastest-growing division in our entire company."

Fortunately, Riona joined us at that moment. "Your cousin is a pilot. Did you know that?"

Riona reacted instantly. "Yes, darling. Somewhere overseas." She looked at me with a very peculiar expression. "Where were you?"

"Iraq and the Middle East," I replied just as quickly.

"Oh right, I'd completely forgotten." Then she pulled her husband away from me.

Aunt Shauna's birthday party was wonderful. It was the first family celebration I had attended in many years. And I felt completely at ease.

"My dear Michael," said my aunt in the evening, a bit tired but happy, after her three older daughters and their families had left again. "It's time you became a proper Irishman. Otherwise, it could get dangerous."

"What do you mean?"

"You did very well today and are now officially part of our family circle. The pilot story with Iraq seems to have worked. And my girls stuck strictly to my instructions."

"Yes, it was fun meeting their husbands too."

"Yes, nice men. Sinéad really hit the jackpot. She and her husband are deeply in love." She paused briefly. "With Riona, I'm not so sure."

"How so?" My curiosity was piqued.

"Liam may not be very moral, more of a smooth-talking businessman."

I understood.

"Anyway," my aunt continued, returning to her original point. "We need to make sure you get official papers as an Irish citizen as soon as possible." She looked at me. "At your parents' request, I got you an Irish birth certificate a few years ago. You don't happen to have it with you, do you?"

"Yes. It's folded up inside my military ID, which I hid here as you instructed."

"Wonderful!" My aunt beamed and clapped her hands. "Give it to me later. I'll take care of the rest. In two weeks, you'll have Irish papers. Then you can identify yourself freely and move about without us having anything more to worry about."

Aunt Shauna didn't waste time. Three days later, I had to go to a photographer in Sixmilebridge to have the required passport photos taken. A week later, I, Michael Richardson, had -- through means still mysterious to me--become a citizen of the Republic of Ireland.

Despite this manoeuvre, which I saw the sense in, I still hadn't made any firm decisions about my future. But I had read a small article in the Irish Times that made it clear something had changed for me: the contact address I had known for German soldiers seeking refuge, at a parish office in Dublin, apparently no longer existed. The priest I had been told to reach out to had been called to Rome and replaced. Whether that was due to church-related or other reasons, of course, was not stated in the news note.

The following week, Riona showed up unexpectedly one ordinary Thursday morning at the family farmhouse.

"I want to go riding with you," she announced immediately when she saw me. "I just need to talk to Mother first. Will you wait for me?"

I agreed and went to the stables to saddle a horse for Riona as well. Half an hour later she came out in full riding dress. I was a bit surprised.

"You left a complete riding outfit here?"

"Yes. I rarely go riding in Limerick. It's no fun in the city, and despite wartime fuel restrictions, car traffic has got too heavy. But I still love riding here." She smiled at me and mounted her horse. "Shall we ride like we used to?"

"Gladly," I said spontaneously, immediately thinking of our very satisfying riding breaks. But Riona was now a respectable Irish wife and mother. Or so I thought.

Only ten minutes in, it became clear to me where Riona wanted to go.

"Are we riding to 'our' lake?"

Riona laughed out loud. "You notice everything, don't you? It's a beautifully warm summer day. And I haven't gone swimming there since September 1936. Time to make up for it, don't you think?"

I asked no more questions and only wondered how far we would go that afternoon, after five years apart. A little more than half an hour later, we reached our destination. As with so much else in this country and region, practically nothing had changed. Even the fallen tree trunk we had sat on during 'our' summer was still there. And we sat down in exactly the same spot.

Riona looked at me thoughtfully, but with a lot of love in her eyes. "It's unbelievably wonderful that you've found your way back to us in these wild times," she began suddenly. She took both my hands and pressed them firmly to her chest. "I believe it was a kind of fate that brought you back here."

"Could be," I took a deep breath. "Wasn't exactly by choice, steering my shot-up plane to Ireland and bailing out last."

"From the way you describe it, it's a miracle you made it all the way to Tullamore at all."

"Yes and no. I still had one engine and the elevator. Flying slowly in a straight line and maintaining altitude was pretty much all that still worked. I'd just like to know what happened to my crew. Whether they survived and made it back to Germany."

"Only God knows that, my dear. You can't really go looking for them." Then she looked directly at me again, suddenly stood up, pulled me up to her, and hugged me. Riona raised her head and kissed me without hesitation." In case you were too afraid to kiss a married woman, I had to take the initiative."

"I honestly didn't know how to treat you when we saw each other again for the first time."

"I noticed. And that's why I'm here!" She began to peel off her summery riding outfit. "I'm less shy about these things, Michael. And I want to go swimming in the lake with you now and then enjoy your love. Like we used to." She laughed deeply, throatily. "The only difference is, I don't have to worry about my virginity anymore." Then she took a step back and started a quick striptease. "Come on!" she urged me. "We don't have all the time in the world."

Ten minutes later, we were frolicking in the pleasantly warm lake like little children. As we found solid ground under our feet closer to the shore, Riona wrapped her arms around my neck again, pressed herself tightly against me, and kissed me with an intensity that could have brought the dead back to life. At the very least, she brought my long-unused manhood back to full hardness. Then something unexpected happened. Riona wrapped her legs around my body, so I could feel her mound and her pussy directly on my cock. "Come to me. Into my pussy, like man and woman." She looked on short distance deeply into my eyes. "You had been a sensation in my arse. Now I want everything."

I was acting purely on instinct. Riona was the most attractive lover of my life, despite all the soldier- and BDM-girls and other affairs. She was the best lover I had ever had. And so I accepted her invitation without hesitation, but also without thinking. I pulled my back a little bit back and positioned my cock's tip directly in front of her pussy. Riona felt my movement and recognized that we were ready. Then she pushed her hips forward and took me in, one deep move until our bodies clashed together.

"I've waited five years for this," she moaned as we both picked up the pace. The following fifteen minutes we shared a slow, deep, and passionate lovemaking session. While kissing her intensely, I used my free hands to alternate between caressing her breasts and nipples and her butt. We both enjoyed the deep penetration in a swaying rhythm. The water gave us a whole new way to move as if we were weightless.

Then Riona bit my earlobe and moaned loudly. "Now fuck harder, I'm almost there."

Her wish was my command. I felt that her love channel wrapped around my cock closer and closer, she was really milking me with her vaginal muscles. Then we exploded together. Riona became really loud. She trembled with her entire body, head to toe. I pumped five, perhaps six full loads of my cum deep into her.

We needed some time before we returned to reality. Even during these late summer days, the lake water had started cooling us down so much that we began to shiver and made our way back to shore. The warm wind dried us off in no time, so we got dressed again.

"What do we do now?" I asked, somewhat foolishly.

Riona laughed at me. Or maybe laughed about me? "First, we ride back to the farmhouse." Then she reached behind my neck with one hand, pulled my head down to her, and kissed me passionately once more. "And second, we do what all Irish wives must do when they have a weakling of a husband at home. We continue when the opportunity arises. And we create those opportunities."

That was more than a clear statement. It sparked genuine enthusiasm in me, but in darker evening hours, it also plunged me into deep contemplation. I was now a deserter officer with a married woman as a lover, a forged nationality, without possessions and without my own income. "And to be honest," I muttered to myself, "also without a profession." Because the idea of ever flying again as a pilot in Ireland seemed utterly unthinkable to me.

Riona and I enjoyed each other twice more over the course of September. Then the onset of wet autumn weather ended our outdoor season by the lake.

With each passing autumn week, my desire to return to Germany and to the war diminished. Here in Western Ireland, there was a deep peace that starkly contrasted with newspaper reports from the European battlefields. The Wehrmacht was still fighting its way through Russia toward Moscow and had surrounded Leningrad.

"The Russian winter is probably the worst enemy," I remarked to my aunt during one of our very rare dinner conversations about the war.

"Then you're lucky," was her quite honest reply. "Snow and ice are rare here. Instead, we have our Atlantic storms and all the miserable rainy weather." Otherwise, Aunt Shauna had keenly noticed that I had become calmer, spoke less and less about Germany, and at the same time took a lot of work off her shoulders in managing the farm.

"Mother and I have the feeling that you're truly at home with us now," Eileen summed up her assessment on the first Sunday of Advent.

"That's true. Right now, you are my family. But we have to wait and see how this whole war develops. I believe England is having serious trouble holding out. And once the Führer has defeated Russia, England won't be able to stand on its own anymore either."

"Would that be so terrible?" My aunt's question came as a bit of a surprise. "We fought against the English for three hundred years just to be able to live the way we think is right. I wouldn't shed a single tear for England, and I'm sure Patrick wouldn't either."

Once again, I became aware that the people who knew about my German officer background didn't see me as an enemy.

Seven days later, the world and the great second war changed forever. In the Monday afternoon edition of the Irish Times, I read for the first time about the Japanese attack on the American fleet at Pearl Harbour. Since we didn't listen to the radio on Sunday evenings, the first reports of the attack hadn't reached us until then. My aunt and I had spread the newspaper out on the kitchen table and were reading the reports together, which took up the entire front page.

"What does this mean now, Herr Oberleutnant?" my aunt suddenly asked me in German.

I shrugged my shoulders at first. "First of all, quite plainly, it means we are facing a second world war now." I paused to think. "And for us here in County Clare, and in Limerick, Shannon, and Galway, it means we're now the gateway for American planes and ships transporting military staff and equipment to England and elsewhere."

"Are we staying neutral? Or are we going to get dragged into this war too?"

"I can't say for sure, Aunt Shauna. But Ireland's neutrality will certainly be compromised. Maybe not by the English, but definitely by the Americans."

"Then we'll have to watch over you even more carefully now. Otherwise, you'll end up in some prisoner-of-war camp after all."

By Christmas, my aunt had held a number of very discreet conversations with old acquaintances from the Fianna Fáil party and former comrades from the civil war. She also wrote a few mysterious letters that apparently were still being encrypted with a certain code. At least, that was true for the response letters, which Shauna had to painstakingly decode.

"Michael," she began the conversation on Christmas Eve after inviting me into the library, which had once been her husband's study, "we need to do something to make your position here unassailable. At least until the major military powers force our Republic to participate in this war with its own soldiers."

I looked at her with interest but also a questioning expression. "What do you have in mind, dear aunt?"

Aunt Shauna chuckled softly. "Quite simple, my dear nephew. You marry an Irish woman. Then no one will ever question your papers again. We both know your papers are genuine originals. But we also both know where their weakness lies."

I nodded silently.

My aunt looked at me intently and penetratingly. "You are a good young man, Michael. Your parents are rightly proud of you." Then she took a deep breath. "I only have one unmarried daughter left. The three older ones have either married husbands or God. That leaves my dear Eileen, who likes you very much and admires you. Not a bad starting position. So, Michael Richardson, alias Bohnkamp. Do you want to take my daughter Eileen as your wife? Then everything stays in the family, and we can protect you."

At first, I remained silent because I was absolutely shocked. My aunt's oldest daughter was my lover, but for me, according to Irish laws and social norms, she was unattainable as a life partner. And now her youngest sister was being offered to me as a bride, without me ever having discussed anything like this with Eileen herself.

Carefully, I formulated my first hesitant response. "What does Eileen say to the proposal?"

Aunt Shauna looked at me, puzzled. "I think she will like the proposal. I haven't talked to her yet."

Now I was even more shocked. My aunt was basically selling me her youngest daughter. And according to Irish Catholic laws, it was until "death do us part."

"I like Eileen. A sensible, well-educated girl with a cheerful spirit," I began.

"Well, that's good, Michael," my aunt cut me off. "I'll talk to her. And I assume she will agree." She nodded at me. "I'll let you know."

Deeply thoughtful and shocked, I left the house. I didn't really know where to go, so I went to the stable, stood next to my horse, stroked its neck, and talked to it. "At least in the bomber, I had Fritze beside me to talk to. Now you have to make do." And then I talked to my brown horse for about a quarter of an hour, who listened quietly and only snorted twice in agreement. "I think I have no choice but to accept Aunt Shauna's proposal," I finally told my horse. "Escape back to Germany is hopeless, and I can't go anywhere else. So, I have to make the best of the situation for Eileen and me."

I slipped my horse half an apple as a reward for the conversation. Then went back into the farmhouse.

The wedding between Michael Richardson and Eileen Keane took place on Thursday, January 22nd, 1942, in the small Catholic St. Finnachta Church in Sixmilebridge. The local priest was an old acquaintance of Patrick and Shauna Keane from republican times and had issued my birth certificate a few years earlier. Therefore, he had no problem with our marriage certificate either. Eileen's sisters were all present with their families, along with some more distant relatives, especially from Eileen's father's side, whom I had not met until then.

In the weeks before, Riona had sensitively prepared her younger sister for her life as a wife. In any case, my newly wedded wife was surprisingly not very nervous after we retreated to the so-called wedding room for the first time.

"Do me a favour, Michael," Riona had whispered into my ear a few days earlier. "Treat my sister very gently and tenderly and pull her on top of you when you penetrate her for the first time. It's much easier for a woman to lose her virginity while sitting up, when she can control the pace herself, than lying beneath you. Eileen is a sweet woman, and you will win her over." I followed her advice. And Riona was right -- with patience and skill, I actually managed to give my young wife a first small orgasm on our first night, a feeling she had never experienced with that intensity before. She really fell asleep happily in my arms.

At the edge of our wedding, there were two events that were significant for the rest of my life. First, Riona announced, beaming with joy, that she was finally pregnant again. "The doctor says I'm already almost halfway through," she explained later, when we were standing side by side briefly and no one was listening. "I hope this time it will be a son." Then she grinned. "It was pretty difficult to get my beloved husband to make a successful shot." Riona's grin burned itself into my memory for the rest of my life.

The second event was directly related to Riona's husband, with whom I basically had a very friendly relationship. "With America entering the war, our air freight volume at both the flying boat terminal and the land airport in Shannon will increase massively in the coming months," he reported to me. "These are not military goods, due to our official neutrality they go directly to England or Northern Ireland. But breathtaking amounts of so-called civilian goods are expected, from provisions to textiles to Coca-Cola essence."

"Exciting," was my brief comment, "I guess that will be a lucrative business for your company."

"You bet," Liam Doyle beamed. "But that's where our current problem starts. Until now, I've managed this business from the office in Limerick. That won't work anymore. But I have so many responsibilities in the company that I can't relocate my workplace to Shannon harbour." He looked directly at me. "I urgently need a water-airport and terminal manager in Shannon who knows something about airplanes and air freight. You did that in the Middle East, didn't you?"

I laughed, partly to hide my embarrassment. My 'air freight' had been explosive and incendiary bombs, not provisions and textiles.

"I was a pilot, Liam. Of course, we had our ground crew for our air freight."

"But you have experience with how it works and what is necessary from a pilot's point of view, right?"

I tilted my head slightly back and forth and thought about how to manoeuvre out of this dangerous embarrassment. "What do you have in mind?" I asked cautiously.

"We need a man we trust to take full supervision of our operations at Shannon. Someone who also understands airplanes. Ideally a man from the family, but we don't have anyone available. Can you imagine taking on this task?"

I took a deep breath twice. With my secret Luftwaffe past and the various courses, I had taken as well as my more than two years of operational experience, I of course knew how a military airbase for bomber squadrons was organized. It couldn't be so different at a civilian airport. After all, mostly the same aircraft were used both civil and military. Our Junkers and Heinkel bombers had been in civilian use until the outbreak of war. My real problem was something else. I still felt somewhere inside like a German officer. And here I was supposed to organize part of the enemy's supply chain, which would then be used against my homeland. On the other hand, I had an Irish family now who had taken me in for my protection. "What to do?" I asked myself silently. I had to admit, I didn't know. Furthermore, I was now a husband and presumably soon to be a father. That clearly meant I had to finally start earning my own money.

I looked thoughtfully at Liam. "If you trust me that much, we can try it. There is only one problem: Eileen and I live here on the farm. And Shannon is about eight miles away; you can't walk back and forth every day."

"True. But that problem we can easily solve. Cars are a problem right now due to rationing. That's why my mother-in-law gave up her old car." Liam thought for a moment. Suddenly, he raised his right hand and pointed his index finger at me. "Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?"

"Yes, a little." I almost let something slip. Of course, I had ridden a motorcycle at our airbases to cover the sometimes considerable distances quickly. It wasn't much different from riding a bicycle; you just didn't have to pedal yourself.

"I can definitely get you an American military motorcycle; the Americans generally ride Indians, model 841. We even have two motorcycles at the airport ourselves. We can get a third one. And you can always refuel at the airport, so that problem is solved."

Two weeks after my wedding, on a dull, rainy day in February, I started my job at the office of 'Doyle Air-Freight Limited' at Shannon Airport. The Indian 841 was already available to me.

Eileen had become really horny after the 'successful' wedding night. Unlike her oldest sister, she loved it more tenderly, which sometimes required a lot of self-control from me. And she loved to ride on top of me, kneading and caressing her breasts intensely while doing so. But we both always got what we wanted. The result was not long in coming. Eileen became pregnant for the first time.

Thus, Aunt Shauna became a grandmother for the fourth time in June, when Riona indeed gave birth to a healthy son and had him baptized with the name Ronan; in the fall, the fifth grandchild followed -- Eileen's and my son, Patrick. While Eileen would go on to give birth to four more healthy children over the next ten years as a result of our relaxed marriage and sex life, Liam and Riona had no further successes. The few occasions over the following summers when Riona and I committed 'adultery' at our lake -- without much of a guilty conscience -- were without exception the result of Riona's passionate anal sex strategy.

Epilogue:

With the birth of Patrick at the latest, my desire to return to service in the Luftwaffe -- a desire perhaps born out of a misplaced sense of duty -- had completely vanished. I was now, consciously, an Irish family man, working at the airport and helping my aunt and my wife manage the family farm. The Doyle family was so happy and satisfied with my work in Shannon that after just two years, they made me a co-partner and director of the air freight company, entrusting me with full responsibility for the business.

The war had fundamentally changed with the entry of the United States and the increasing defeats of the Wehrmacht in the Soviet Union. The Irish Times reported on the devastating Allied bombing raids on Germany with remarkable openness. My mother in Sodingen and my aunt still exchanged letters once a month via their mysterious postal route, so we at least knew the German side of the family was still alive -- but nothing more. That mail connection also broke off in the summer of 1944 after the Allied landings in Normandy.

When private letters could be sent again from Germany in late summer 1945, I received certainty about my family's fate. My father had already died in November 1944 during a British bombing raid on the industrial facilities in Herne and Sodingen. My mother was then evicted from the director's house and had since lived alone in emergency housing. My oldest sister's family was entirely wiped out in the devastating bombing of Wesel in February 1945 -- only charred bodies were found in the rubble of their home. In addition, my younger brother was presumably taken prisoner by the Russians in spring 1945, and nothing was known about his whereabouts.

After Aunt Shauna gave me my mother's letter, written in Gaelic, to read -- helping me translate the words I didn't understand -- I sat on the veranda behind the farmhouse and cried for two hours like a little girl. It was only at that moment that I truly realized the horrific toll modern bombing exacts and the devastating consequences it can have. Until then, everything I knew about it had been abstract; the bomber war had seemed like a battle between attacking planes and anti-aircraft defences. Now I could see, in the fate of my own family, the human consequences of that bombing war.

My aunt and I pulled every string through the Red Cross to bring my now 57-year-old mother -- who could point to her Irish birth and her right to Irish citizenship -- to Sixmilebridge. With the help of political contacts in the ruling Fianna Fáil party, it all worked out surprisingly quickly. Mary Bohnkamp, née Richardson, arrived in her birthplace in western Ireland two days before Christmas -- just in time before one of the coldest and harshest winters descended upon devastated Germany. When she arrived at the Sixmilebridge train station, we were all shocked.

"I almost didn't recognize her," I confessed to my wife that night as we went to bed. "In the nearly five years since I last saw her, she's aged at least twenty years."

It took several months, good medical care from our local doctor, and even more importantly, intensive pastoral support from our priest before my mother began to become herself again. Eventually, she was happy to be living under the same roof as her sister and to help Eileen take care of our children.

Of my former crew and flying comrades, I only ever heard from Fritze Timmhoff. He had indeed made it as far as Dublin, where he fell into a trap set by British agents. First taken to Northern Ireland, he spent the rest of the war in a POW camp in Canada and was released in 1946. His family in Sodingen had not survived the bombing; he was alone. We found each other again through the Red Cross tracing service. Fritze visited Sixmilebridge for the first time in the autumn of 1949, eventually overcame a series of bureaucratic hurdles and began working at our company in Shannon. Two years later he married a cousin of Liam Doyle.