The Airman…..

by Alyssa Davis

 

It’s strange how the mind can recall certain events with such clarity yet blot out others. It was as if my life began during the years of World War Two. I don’t recall much of anything prior. Of course, being raised and educated in an orphanage doesn’t highlight much. I do remember enlisting into the military at the earliest possible age, to be on my own. As a young airman in the Army Air Corp, I remember my last bombing mission and the ensuing events like it was yesterday. Before that, the memory dims. Let me relate my story.

It was September of 1942. I had a feeling it was going to be a bad experience when we departed from England. I was a ball turret gunner on a B24 bomber. We were returning from another bombing mission of the Rumanian oil fields, one of many such runs. These runs were killers. They’re daylight raids but with the days getting shorter, the return leg sometimes takes us into the darkness of night. So many aircraft being shot down…so many air crews being lost, both from anti-aircraft artillery and German fighter aircraft. Yet, the airmen are duty bound to do their best.

Though only 18 years old, I had already become an experienced air crewman on these missions…of course, anyone who survived a mission became that much more experienced for the next one. This time, our slow, lumbering, aircraft was shot up pretty bad...from both ground fire and enemy aircraft…two engines out and another one overheating. Several of the crew members were dead.

Over the intercom, the pilot said,

"Frankie, we’re losing hydraulic pressure...I think you better bail out while you can still maneuver your turret or you're going to be trapped. We may have to ditch if we can make the coast and you’re on the underside of this thing, remember!"

It was a hazy and pitch black night. The idea of jumping from the disabled aircraft into the unknown seemed scary but so did being trapped in the cramped, tiny quarters of the belly turret. I had been selected for that position because of my small stature. At only 5'3" tall and, at the time, I weighed 122 lb. My station was called the "belly ball turret," located on the underside of the aircraft, which mounted twin .50 caliber machine guns and was maneuvered by hydraulic motors, without which it would be locked in position. I needed power to rotate to an exit position. Only physically small men were selected for that position, not necessarily an honor, but obviously a necessity. Even we were cramped when manning that position. Of course, I was also a good shot with the machine gun, and skillful with its operation which took some unique coordination of maneuvering, aiming, and shooting with accuracy. I always had a knack for mechanical things.

"Skipper," I called back, "where are we? I can’t see a thing out there."

"We're over Southern France, heading for the coast. Its enemy territory, but you should be okay, especially if the Resistance finds you first. You'd better hurry...not much time before you’re trapped."

The remaining engines were sputtering and the plane was shaking as the pilot was struggling to maintain altitude with the remaining power. It was apparent in his voice.

"OK Skipper...see you in London," I said, trying to be brave as I rotated the ball one last time to the exit position, scampered out of the hatch, quickly slipped into my parachute harness, and jumped from the aircraft into the cold, blackness of the night. I was scared!

The erratic sound of the disabled bomber’s engines slowly faded away into silence as my parachute opened with a thud and I glided silently to the earth. The air was damp and cold and I was shivering. I could see absolutely nothing below me...total darkness. A very eerie feeling. I had no idea when I would hit the ground or what I would hit so I bent my legs into a semi-fetal position and braced for whatever, hoping I'd hit something soft....rather than a thick tree or worse, a church steeple. I wore no extra protective clothing, only my thin wool Army Air Corps uniform and a leather flight helmet. Typically, American bomber crews wore heavy sheepskin lined leather flight gear because of the cold temperatures at the high altitudes they flew, but the turret gunner had no room for such attire, not even a parachute, in their cramped position, so their turret was electrically heated.

Suddenly, I felt branches ripping at me, shredding my uniform as I crashed through a large tree, branch after unforgiving branch tearing at me, rapidly slowing my descent until the parachute rigging finally snagged in the tree leaving me suspended in my harness. That's all I remembered before passing out.

I awakened to the sound of voices…female voices...people moving around me. The muted swishing sound of crisp, starched, aprons. The distant clinking of glassware, the clatter of metal trays. My head throbbed with pain…I slowly opened my eyes and brought them to focus…I was on a cot, in a white room...an infirmary? Nurses...where was I? A hospital! Had I been captured already? Was this an army hospital?

"Ah, you're awake! Good! How do you feel?" a female voice asked in English, with a distinct British accent.

I looked at her. She was an older woman, dressed in black garb...not a nurse...not military…a Nun!

"Where am I?" I managed to ask, slowly turning my head and looking around, still a bit groggy. These weren't nurses, they were all Nuns, but some wore white full aprons. Others wore traditional garb.

"You're in a Convent, my dear...you're safe here. You have a nasty bump on your head and many scratches, but nothing appears serious. We found you hanging by your parachute harness in a tree. You must have been hit by a heavy branch," she explained. "Are you alone? Should we look for others? We did not hear an aircraft," she asked. "You are an American, are you not?"

Her incessant chatter was adding to my headache. I was trying to collect my thoughts.

I didn't want to say much until I knew more about my rescuers. I didn't know them and wasn’t certain they were friendly to me or the Germans.

I noticed my uniform was badly torn by the tree branches, literally torn to shreds; my shirt and pants, even my underwear. At least my shoulder patches were visible on the remnants of my sleeves indicating the United States Army Air Corp.

"Ah...Yes ma’am...American. Where is this Convent, exactly?" I continued. "Are we near any large city?" I wanted to establish a point of reference. Hopefully I was very near the coast.

"This is southern France, dear. We are near no large city. We are just a small order, but we survive in spite of the Germans. We give them no problem...they give us none. You see, we need to know if you're alone because if they find others, they'll come searching for you. We must be prepared."

From that, I learned very little, but her response made sense, I felt, and she did seem sincere so I confided in her.

"Yes, I'm alone. Our plane was badly damaged and I had to bail out. The others were going to try to ride it out. My name is Frank…Frank Abrams."

As I was talking, I swung my legs around and attempted to sit up on the edge of the bed, moving slowing to minimize the throbbing in my head. The Sister assisted me so I didn't fall back.

"Hello Frank Abrams...I'm Sister Margrette. I've been assigned to help you since I speak English. When you're ready, we will find you some food and then go meet the Mother Superior. You must be starving; you have been out for a day and a half."

I was stunned to hear that. I thought I had jumped from the plane only the previous night.

"Ah...well...first I need a rest room, please," I said desperately. After the long flight and subsequent sleep, my bladder was aching to be relieved.

"Ah yes...of course, come with me," as she helped me to my feet and we slowly walked to a small, very basic enclosure resembling a country outhouse, only indoors. It was a Spartan facility as was everything else I observed while I looked around. Just the bare necessities, but sufficient. Everything resembled what I had seen in photos of old monasteries. The potty seat was simply a well worn flat board with a single hole. I sat so I wouldn’t leave any drips, beside the fact that I was still a bit unstable on my feet. I finished my business, rinsed my hands and face from a basin of water provided outside the enclosure, and rejoined Sister Margrette.

We proceeded to the kitchen or what they called the food preparation area. I was impressed how immaculate everything appeared. The kitchen workers consisted of two older nuns wearing long, white, cotton tunics with white hoods accompanied by several young girls in black, knee length dresses, black stockings, and white aprons. Their heads were covered with small caps, and they all had seemingly short haircuts, or maybe tightly arranged hair styles.

All were busily preparing the next meal, but they took the time to produce some food for a wayward, diminutive, stranger in the tattered remnants of a military uniform. Half a loaf of coarse bread, a small wedge of cheese, and an earthenware liter mug of milk which I graciously accepted. Simple sustenance, but delicious on an empty stomach. The elder nuns assumed I was too young to drink wine. Although I was 18, being so small, and with my fair complexion and beardless face, I appeared to be about 16 or less and was commonly questioned in bars when I was out with my buddies.

Sister Margaret and I sat at a large empty table in the dining room and talked while I ate. She explained in more detail how I came to be discovered by the Sisters. I had landed in their orchard where they grow apples and grapes. Their order is self-supporting, producing their own food and selling the surplus to buy necessities from the local merchants. They produce their own fruit wine and a bit of brandy, cheese, and clothing and sell their products to the nearby villages using the profits to sustain themselves, a process that had been going on for many years and through many wars and political conflicts. I happened to snag a mature, old tree which was tall and sturdy…my luck.

When I had finished my meal, we departed the dining room to visit the Mother Superior, head of the convent.

"Reverend Mother Angelica, this is the American airman Frank Abrams," said Sister Margaret, introducing in English.

"Ah yes, the American. How do you feel young man?" She spoke with difficulty in English but with a heavy French accent. She was a large woman, very imposing, very old, yet she appeared to be spry and alert.

"I'm fine now ma’am, thank you...and please excuse my appearance," I replied, feeling self conscious about my disheveled, tattered clothing and exposed underwear.

"No matter about that. You were not injured...good. We now must decide what to do with you. We will help you, but you cannot remain here like that, of course." She had lapsed into French so Sister Margrette translated for me.

"Ma'am, can you get me through to the Resistance? I'm told they can get me back to my unit." I didn’t know how else to address her.

"No!..We cannot risk a contact with the Resistance. In this part of France, the government is sympathetic to the Germans and there are many Nazi collaborators, even within the Resistance itself. It would be too dangerous...we trust no one. You will have to remain here for the safety of all of us."

"But this is a convent, Reverend Mother, it's for women only...and, I…I'm not even of your faith," I mildly protested. I knew I was in no position to argue, but I was trying to be practical. I didn’t want to endanger my rescuers anymore than I already had.

"How can you possibly justify a man living here?"

"Mon Petite, we have little choice...in coming here, and us sheltering you even now, you have endangered all of us. It was fate that brought you here but, if you are discovered, we will all be punished by the Germans.

If we send you away, you will surely be captured and shot by the collaborators, and if it's determined we helped you, likewise we will be shot. Your uniform is almost destroyed…even with a civilian disguise, you have no papers so you can go nowhere. No...You must remain here. These are unusual times and they call for unusual methods."

The Reverend Mother paused, reflecting. Without my understanding French, her body language and tone of voice told me this was a very serious situation and I had no choice but to comply. Then she spoke again.

"You will become a Novitiate, the perfect ruse. You are young and petite, you will pass easily. You do not have to be of our faith for us to harbor you. And, you can still perform useful duties and support yourself."

I looked at Sister Margrette with a puzzled expression. I didn't understand. She explained, "Novitiates are, in a sense, nuns-in-training. They are young girls who are studying to be nuns but have not yet taken their vows. You saw some in the kitchen in the short black dresses."

"I'm to wear a dress… and pose as a girl?" I asked meekly.

The Mother responded, "We get frequent visits from local merchants to trade for our goods, and occasional visits from the soldiers to collect "taxes" in the form of wine and cheese... We obviously can not have a young man living here in any capacity. You are too young to pass as a priest, and also, the sudden appearance of a new priest would be suspicious. They are all well known in this region. No, you must blend in with the others to be unnoticed, and all the others are girls. It's survival for all of us, now. It’s not unusual for new girls to join the convent."

"Couldn't I just simply remain hidden?"

"It would be too risky...accidents happen, you might be seen by someone. No...You will become a Novice."

Her tone of voice was final. She looked at Sister Margrette and nodded, adding the seal to her command. They continued their conversation in French for a few moments. I, of course, understood nothing. I was trying to think of alternative plans to get back to my base but my mind was void of any viable ideas. I would have to submit to my hosts.

Sister Margrette and I took our leave of the Reverend Mother and walked to a dormitory structure where I was assigned a small room as my quarters. It resembled a cell without bars. There were only a wooden framed cot with woven rope webbing supporting a thin, military style, stuffed cotton mattress and two blankets neatly folded at the foot, a wooden table serving as a desk, a basic chair, and a simple hand-crafted chest of drawers in the room. The only illumination was daylight from a small window...there was no electricity.

"Please wait here and I will bring you some clothing." With that, she quietly vanished and left me alone to my thoughts.

I sat down and waited. The dorm was quiet...so quiet I could hear my heart beating. I began to feel like I was in a prison. The walls and floor were stone and mortar, the ceiling was constructed of rough hewn wood boards supported by heavy wooden joists. The building appeared to be hundreds of years old. I was beginning to count the stones out of boredom when Sister Margrette returned with an armload of clothing which she gently placed on the bed. She directed me to change into these new garments, place the extra items into the drawers, and step out into the hall and await her return. With that, she again disappeared, closing the door behind her.

I obediently removed all my military issued clothing...even my underwear was olive drab colored Government Issue. Sorting through the new things I found several pairs of white cotton, girl’s underpants, actually what we used to refer to as bloomers, of which I put one pair on. There were three black dresses, similar to what the young girls in the kitchen were wearing, three white cotton full slips, and three pairs of black, cotton stockings. Also, I noticed one pair of black leather flat heeled shoes with straps and buckles. (In the stack were also a folded, well used straight razor and a stropping belt. I wondered about the source of these implements.) I donned the slip, followed by a dress which buttoned down the front. I struggled a bit with the buttons which were reversed to what I’d always worn. The full skirt fell to several inches below my knees. I was surprised that everything fit so well.

Next, I gently eased on the delicate, hand-crafted stockings to prevent stretching or tearing. Finding nothing to suspend them in position, I rolled the tops down a few turns to just above my knees, providing enough tension to keep them from sliding. I tried on the shoes...surprise again! They, too, fit well. Lightweight and dainty, a vast difference from my heavy flight boots. All these garments seemed so delicate.

I placed the remaining items into the drawers, carefully folding the dresses and slips. I noticed how everything was handmade and meticulously stitched.

"Here I am, dressed as a girl and I feel strange…foolish, so now what?" I said to myself.

I was embarrassed to be seen by anybody, but then, who was going to see me or who would recognize me? So why was I concerned?

I hardly felt I was wearing anything as compared to my woolen uniform and normal, male attire. In fact, I felt rather "undressed" in a dress. I had never worn such attire and it felt….different…embarrassing? Yet, why should I be embarrassed? No one knows me. And they are…rather comfortable.

After all, it’s just another uniform, of sorts. I was trying to convince myself. But, the ever present draft of air blowing up my skirt, and the skirt swishing loosely against my legs, was a constant reminder of what I was wearing. But, then, these ladies are risking their lives to help me so the least I could do was to cooperate with their efforts.

I dutifully stepped out into the hall and waited. But I could feel myself blush.

In a short time, Sister Margrette returned carrying what looked like headgear of some sort.

"Ah yes…you look very nice Frank...but from now on, we must call you Francine. Everything fits you, I see....good. Now, you must keep your head covered at all times. It is a religious tradition with us, our ‘uniform’ so to speak, and it will conveniently cover your military haircut."

She positioned the cap, which resembled something a domestic servant might wear, onto my head and showed me how to adjust it. I now, indeed, resembled the other young girls, with my female attire and youthful, fair complexion, and my short, slender figure. The Reverend Mother was correct.

I inquired about the presence of a razor in this all female institution to which Sister Margrette replied that it had belonged to a visiting priest who had left it a long time in the past...it was old but should be still usable. I also asked for the method to hold the stockings up and was advised to roll them as I had already figured out for myself. Later, I hoped to be given some garters.

Sister Margrette gathered all the remnants of my male clothing into a bundle and, giving me a tour of the dorm and showing me the dorm toilet facilities along with an explanation of the operation of the fixtures, she dropped the last vestiges of my uniform into the wood stove of the water heater where it was quickly reduced to ashes, eliminating any incriminating evidence of a military male visitor and symbolically disposing of my maleness.

The water supply, I learned, was gravity fed by cisterns on the roof which were filled both by rain and a wind operated pump drawing from a well. Heated water was to be used only for laundry or bathing, which itself was an event. I would be sharing the toilet and bath facility with all the other younger women so my discretion was required to prevent embarrassment. We would have to work out a schedule. I was to learn that these were all farm girls and not the least bit shy about their bodies, or mine. It was for me to adjust to being around females in these circumstances. I was the shy one!

Sister Margrette showed me the laundry, kitchen, and other areas, introducing me as Francine to all the Sisters as they appeared.

At first, I cringed at the sound of the feminized version of my name, but I soon adjusted to it and the fact that I was dressed as a girl and obviously needed a girl’s name.

Dressed as a girl!

Walking in a skirt was certainly a different experience and the sensation created a constant awareness of my attire. I found I walked and moved differently in that I had to take shorter steps and adjust to the loose fabric swishing around my legs as I moved. And the airiness! It was actually pleasant, a feeling of being exposed while fully covered, When I sat, I was frequently advised to smooth my skirt under me before sitting to minimize wrinkles, and, above all, to always keep my knees together. I quickly found it a natural thing to do.

The remainder of the day was spent on the grand tour of the premises. I was informed that participation in the religious ceremonies was voluntary for me since I wasn’t of their faith, but it was mandatory for all the others. But I had to attend so my absence wouldn’t be noticeable.

Prior to the evening meal, Vespers services were held. I observed in silence while all the women gathered to pray. They then entered the dining room for dinner which they ate silently. I was seated at the table with the other Novitiates, all young girls in their late teens. As a group, I blended well in my new role, trying hard to act like a girl, as much as I knew how, and not over-acting, using the other girls as role models. Maybe they didn’t know I was actually a male…and if they were talking about me, I sure didn’t know since I didn’t understand their language.

The Reverend Mother noticed me and nodded approvingly at this new "girl." I made eye contact and faintly smiled in recognition. I also became aware that I was one of the smallest persons in this room full of women, all former residents of the surrounding rural villages.

After dinner, the other young girls introduced themselves to me with the little English they knew. To my chagrin, they all seemed to know about me in the short time since I had arrived, and were eager to help me. I wasn’t sure whether it was because I was American or just a male in their midst. (So much for my presence being a secret.) However, their friendly attitude and acceptance of my situation diminished the embarrassment of my forced cross dressing.

News traveled fast. In fact, I was to learn that all the Sisters of the convent knew about me and had accepted the task of protecting me from the despised Germans and the associated risk to themselves. The few who knew more English helped translate for those who didn’t.

Within a few weeks, my peers got better acquainted with Francine and became friends, and she (I) became more comfortable in her new role. This was no small task. Learning to dress as a girl…especially to behave as a girl. This was all so new, and, at first, very embarrassing. But I was treated so well. No ridicule, no negative comments, just total acceptance of my situation and warmth for being an American, and especially the encouragement towards my gender transition. My greatest fear was allayed. Maybe because they had never seen me as a male, it made my presence easier.

In general, life in the convent dormitory was not easy, especially for me in my role as a young lady. Privacy was assured by our separate rooms, but we still shared a common toilet and bath facility. Being raised in an orphanage and having served in the military, I was accustomed to sharing a latrine with other guys, but this was vastly different. These were all girls. Girls, yes, but they were farm girls from large families and didn’t seem to be too disturbed by the presence of a male in their midst. (They obviously had never seen a circumcised male before and were intrigued by the sight, much to my chagrin.) But this was all new for me and I wasn’t accustomed to seeing pubescent females in various stages of undress or partial nudity, so I quickly learned to use the facilities late at night in solitude for my bodily functions and cleansing.

It was a new experience to wash and bathe in cold water, the result of doing so after all the others had gone to bed. And, to do my own laundry, by hand. I had always, at least, used a washing machine. But my dorm mates were very helpful in all areas of my gender transition. Especially in helping me get properly dressed and coaching me with maneuvering in a skirt while remaining ladylike which required major adjustments on my part. (It seems that little girls learn at an early age to keep their knees together, skirts down, and never to reveal their undies.) In fact, they subtly taught me to be a young lady in all aspects. I took lots of good natured teasing, laced with encouragement, but I learned well, and even began to enjoy it. It was imperative that I do so in case I ever come in contact with the Germans or their sympathizers, I was told. There was much at stake.

It was usually the only extra time I had to be with the other younger women since they were typically kept busy working or praying.

It was not an easy existence, and certainly not my choice, but I was obliged to fit in with all the others.

The older Sisters extended that cross-gender training ostensibly to prepare me for the outside world knowing that the war wouldn’t go on forever and that I’d eventually be leaving the convent. For what reason I needed such extensive training, at that time, I wasn’t sure, but I was continually instructed on the subtleties of becoming a lady. It became a challenge and I accepted it as such. It was total immersion in feminine demeanor and language as I learned French as spoken by a woman (and there is a difference, even as there is with English). I was regarded as another teenage girl, but then, that’s what I had become in their eyes! And girls become women… But this girl had missed the basic training of growing up as a girl, so she received special tutoring. (I was to later discover that, due to some physical changes to my body, I would remain as a woman.)

Taking turns and rotating duties, incoming novitiates of this Order work at all the tasks until it is ascertained what their best skills are. As Francine, I was also to attempt everything and meet each Sister one on one. I noticed that although some appeared very old, they were in amazingly good physical condition. Upon inquiry, I was told by Sister Margrette that Sister Mary, having had medical training, was the resident physician as well as an expert with herbs, and she prepared an herbal tea like beverage that they all consumed...that it was a "potion to help keep them young."

When I had an opportunity to talk with Sister Mary, she confided to me that some herbs she used contained phytoestrogen compounds that tended to retard the effects of aging in females although most of it was likely psychosomatic.

(I learned that phytoestrogens were hormones occurring in natural forms such as in roots and herbs.) It also alleviated problems with menopause and post-menopause syndrome.

She explained that the same ingredients, in greater concentration, might cause me to reduce my body and facial hair, a thought that was of particular interest since the razor was an antique and very difficult to use especially using cold water and homemade soap. Using a straight razor is an art I obviously had never acquired since I’d only used a modern safety razor during the relatively short time I had been shaving.

She also told me some herbs might also induce a feeling of euphoria which I might enjoy.

With my consent, Sister Mary started me on a regimen of a special herbal tea "cocktail" with the goals she described. I was more than willing to drink copious quantities of it because I didn’t savor the alcoholic beverages they produced, and the water of the region was barely palatable to me. All that remained to drink was raw, unpasteurized milk, not my favorite, either.

Besides, her brew was very tasty, rather mint flavored.

Perhaps there was too much iron content in the local water but it was awful! In conjunction with boiled water, the herbal brew seemed to mask any unpleasantness.

(I was later to discover that the actual intended purpose of the estrogen laden elixir had been to suppress any sexual urges I might possess while living amidst the young females. However, it did more than retard any desires.)

Over a period of several months, I made the rounds of the various duties within the convent and its grounds. I disliked working in the barn with animals. Being a city boy, I had low tolerance for the odors of animals and I seemed to disturb them with my presence.

I found working in the field and orchard too rigorous for my small physique. I required so much assistance from the physically larger, farm raised girls that it was proven ineffective to retain me there.

Similarly, I showed little aptitude for culinary work either. I created too much waste to be of much use. Well, I had never cooked before. They couldn’t afford me there.

All of the tasks were made more difficult by the fact that we were always attired in dresses which, in my opinion, were not intended for such rigorous labor. Especially, not for a boy who’d never worn a dress, before.

It occurred to me, though, that, impractical as they were, I had become otherwise very comfortable in girl’s clothes. Perhaps it was the environment I was living in but I actually enjoyed my new persona. It was very relaxing to be out of the competitive male arena.

I did show a particular aptitude towards detailed handwork with needle and thread, specifically tailoring.

With the tutoring I received from the Sisters, within a reasonably short time, I became quite adept at using a sewing machine, a well worn but reliable old foot-treadle operated American made Singer. I had always been good with mechanical things.

While working in the dressmaking area, I readily learned how to make the garments ladies wore, and to mend worn or damaged articles of which there were many. Coincidentally, I also was rapidly learning to speak French (out of necessity) and was continually tutored in all things, as a mother would to a daughter. This was French with a very effeminate dialect, intonation, and vocabulary, I was to later discover, as well as gestures and body language. I could emulate my counterparts very skillfully and took pride in that. Pride in becoming a lady.

With my designated skill established, I was permanently assigned duty with the dressmakers. For this occupation, wearing a skirt was no encumbrance. It was reasonably sedentary work. With the yard goods purchased from the villages, I assisted in the making of clothing to be sold back at a profit which was, in turn, used to buy food and again, yard goods. The quality of my work was very good and I more than earned my keep at the convent. I learned to design, cut patterns, and fabricate garments from scratch. It all seemed to come natural to me.

During this time, I grew to love the serenity of this locale and had adjusted well to the life style of living among woman, and especially as one of them. Everyday was a new experience for me. Doing tasks I had never done before, wearing garments that were new to me…skirts, hosiery, slips… and adjusting to the things they entailed, such as modifying my speech and behavior to conform to a different gender. I seemed to stop thinking of myself as a male in every sense, and focused on my development as a woman…after all, I was totally immersed in this female environment and it was survival for all of us for me to blend in with the others.

As had been suggested by Sister Mary, I did experience a significant change in my personality; I felt much more serene, more congenial, and more openly emotional...the city boy had become a country girl…as well as some noticeable changes in my physique.

In slightly over a year’s time, I had been slowly losing weight from what I attributed to the meager vegetarian diet we were provided…my waist and limbs were slimmer, although my hips and buttocks appeared to be fuller. I blamed the changes to my consumption of mostly whole milk, grains, and cheeses....we ate no meat, which was scarce… and especially my lack of exercise. Tailoring is a lot of sitting.

My hair had grown long and full, equal to that of the other young girls. I had become quite proud of its growth and appearance and, in fact, had no intention of cutting it. All the girls brushed and fashioned each other’s hair and I joined in on the activity. We all wore it in a bun or a tight French Braid style during the day while letting it hang loose at night after extensive brushing which gave it sheen and body. We brushed and arranged each others hair so I became expert with that also.

I still needed to shave my face although only about once every two weeks. My facial hair was very fine and coming in ever more slowly over time. If not for the dark color, I could shave even less frequently. Many of the real girls had abundant facial and body hair, some even more than I had, so mine wasn’t too unusual. I never knew that European women were so hairy. Especially southern Europe.

I also had noticed a significant bit of breast development occurring on my chest. My nipples had become predominant in size and color, extremely sensitive, and the mass of flesh surrounding them was firm and enlarged. This motivated me to fashion a brassiere for myself. Lining the cups with silk from my parachute, it relieved the irritation of my nipples rubbing the cotton slip, and with a bit of padding included, enhanced my shape to conform more to the other girls, something I now felt I wanted to do. They were all pleased to see me wearing one and agreed it was long overdue. I was becoming very proud of my breasts, such as they were, and the feminization of my body, much as the other girls compared themselves to each other. After all, I was now a girl, only with a little something extra.

So, after a little more than year of socialization exclusively in the company of females, and a constant diet of female hormones, even in herbal form, I had definitely become more Francine than Frank, the male airman who had fallen out of the sky, and I was perfectly adjusted to the new person.

The intended purpose of the potion provided to me had been effective. At no time did I show any sexual interest in my dorm mates. Initially, that was out of respect for my benefactors along with the embarrassment of my having to dress as a girl. As time passed, the brew seemed to take effect and any carnal thoughts I might’ve developed had totally diminished and my new appearance became second nature to me. These girls had become my sisters and I was one of them!

After two years, I became unable to sustain a full erection and even a partial was difficult, in fact, my genitals were greatly diminished in size. My breasts were as developed as many girls my age. This pleased me because I had lost any interest of my "maleness." My thoughts had become those of a woman, possibly due to the total association of things feminine. Frank was gone forever! It would be impossible for him to return. It was as if he had never existed.

I tailored my clothing to be a bit more form fitting to my figure. I created brassieres to support and enhance my breasts in appearance as well as comfort. (Female vanity?) This became a popular item among my peers and a good selling item in the village. From this, I added better fitting, brief cut panties, and slips, using finer fabrics than the traditional cotton, and designed for more comfort. The older ladies seemed to desire the new items, trimmed with lace, and denoting a more feminine appearance. Perhaps I was introducing a "city look" to a small country village and a convent. I was just making what I enjoyed wearing, but they all became popular and sold very well.

At the convent, we often heard rumors about the progress of the war. One merchant who came to buy our cheese talked about seeing trucks full of American soldiers on the road. Another day, we heard that all the collaborators in the area had gone into hiding, fearful of the allies’ approach. This meant the Germans had departed and the loyal French Resistance was in authority.

Two of the other young Novices had received letters from their families asking if they would consider leaving the convent if the war were to end soon. Both families had lost members in the war and needed extra hands to help with the farm, or work in the family shop.

Mother Superior summoned me to her office, and told me that my presence had proved a blessing, with my talent and industry in dressmaking. I had contributed much to the convent with my work and innovation while being a welcome visitor. However, it would be necessary for me to leave when the hostility ended, being neither Catholic nor female. I could convert my religion but not my sex. They had bent the rules to save me, but now, the rules must be enforced.

With that, she asked me if I had any plans for the future.

I thought this was ironic. They had rescued a man from a war, transformed him to resemble a woman in every aspect, and now were casting her out because she wasn’t a genetic female. Yet, it would be impossible for me to return to life as a man, both because of my appearance and demeanor, nor would I now desire to do so. I loved being a woman.

Yes, my religious beliefs could be changed, although not very likely, but I would never be a female in the biological sense.

So my life would go on…somewhere else.

My plans were rather impromptu, but I told her it was my hope to go to Paris and open a dressmaking shop. (What else could I do? I could no longer live as a man and it was my only skill, now.) When asked how I planned to finance it, I replied that the US military owed me a lot of money, and that I intended to collect it. I didn’t disclose exactly how I intended to get my hands on my back pay and other benefits. After all, being a nun, she didn’t need to hear the details of the deception I was planning,

Along with her blessings, the Reverend Mother gave me consent to prepare a proper "civilian" wardrobe for myself, using whatever material I needed. She also asked me to prepare appropriate secular clothing for Suzanne and Yvonne, the two other Novices who would be leaving.

I worked out the details of my plan. As soon as it was safe, I would leave the convent and travel to Paris, as Francine, of course. I was very comfortable living in my new gender; more so, I was now committed to being a woman. In fact, I could not imagine returning to my former life as a man, even if somehow the physical changes could be reversed, of which I was sure could not be.

I certainly had no desire to remain in the military. As for a return to my pre-war civilian life, there was nothing to return to. I had enlisted right out of the orphanage high school, and had no one waiting for me back home. My only marketable skills were now dressmaking and tailoring, specifically the design of women’s clothes. During my stay in the convent, I had been groomed and socialized to be very feminine and was proud of it. I had become a lady in every sense of the word.

I returned to the workroom, inventoried the available material, and began to plan the outfits I would sew. For Suzanne, who would be returning to her father’s farm to work in her brother’s place, I set aside some sturdy blue woolen cloth. A farm girl would need a modest, yet serviceable dress. Yet I hoped I could make something for her that might help her look attractive to the local young men. After all, she wasn’t going to become a nun, at least not right away.

Yvonne was going to help her mother run a pottery shop that had been in the family for generations. Her family was devout Catholic and had encouraged their first born child to enter the church. Now, since Yvonne’s younger sister had died from diphtheria in 1943, Yvonne would have to come home.

I knew how the shop girls dressed. Not all that different from the farm women, but perhaps with a bit more flair and style. Their clothes could have a bit more delicate detail, as they didn’t have to stand up to the abuse of farm work.

This task provided me a greater challenge and gained me more experience in secular fashions. It didn’t take me long to complete the new wardrobes, especially for myself. I created some very nice articles of lingerie to go with my outer attire. Not high fashion, but modest, country -woman styles yet attractive and enhancing my figure.

It was the first week of August in 1944 when a local cloth merchant came to the convent shouting with joy.

"The Americans are in Paris! France is free! The Germans are gone!"

We pressed him for details and he told us all he knew. He repeated what he had heard in the village market, and what they had heard as they huddled around the short-wave radio, hidden in M. Delacort’s root cellar.

We hugged and kissed him, and each other. We shouted and sang and toasted and prayed and laughed and cried, long into that night.

I left the convent two days later and caught a very late and very overcrowded train bound for Paris. Being one of very few women on the train, I was dressed in a black, long sleeve dress that fell to my mid calf. The outfit was complete with the black knit hose, very "Convent-fashion" but sans headgear. My hair was done into a French braid as a typical country -woman would appear. Of course, I wore no cosmetics, but my hormone enhanced features were definitely feminine, especially my developed and well supported breasts.

My dress was styled to be modest, but uniquely fashionable enough to befit my proposed profession of seamstress. After all, I was, in a way, a walking advertisement for my dressmaking business. I also had to look like a young widow.

Mother Superior had given me a few Francs to help me get by, until I could go about collecting my back pay and benefits. She also had Sister Mary write me the recipe for the elixir I had been drinking, which a chemist could provide for me as needed. I was urged to continue using it, and why not, it was a delicious beverage.

I had no papers of identification, but I assumed, without the German presence, I wouldn’t be questioned. Even then, I would say my papers were destroyed in a fire.

I proceeded directly to the U.S. Military Headquarters in Paris to make my claim as the widow of an American airman. I had my story well thought out. I had met an American airman named Frank Abrams who had been shot down over France in September of 1942. He had been rescued and hidden by the Resistance. We fell in love and were married by a priest. He had tried to get back to the Allies but was captured and executed as a spy. And the priest was killed in an air raid which destroyed the church and all its records. As proof, I had Frank’s dog tags and all the information of his history and background. I knew all the intimate details about him, even his birthmarks! Everything I said matched with his military records, even the name of his airplane, his pilot, and commanding officer.

Amidst the confusion of the occupation, the U.S. authorities accepted my story as being factual and credible, and I became Frank Abrams’ legal widow. Proper papers were issued. Frank was declared officially killed in action. There was no turning back for me now. I was awarded my husband’s back pay from the time of his last mission, as confirmed by his pilot, along with his military life insurance. A partial amount was disbursed in advance to aid his poor widow; however, the bulk of the money was delayed due to bureaucratic procedures.

I was now officially the widow of an American. These papers would replace a birth certificate if I were to get a passport or anything else. I was now a certified female. My male persona was officially dead and my new life legally as Francine beginning, and I had not the slightest remorse. In fact, I was elated at the prospect of establishing a career in a new gender. It was like being reborn.

I had been in Paris for a week now. The bulk of Frank’s money was promised to me, but I had only been given a small advance and that only after a lot of what amounted to fancy negotiating (pleading). Still, I wanted to push ahead with my plan to set up shop as a dressmaker. One afternoon, as I walked toward the room I had rented, I saw a sign in the window of a women’s hairdressing shop. The owner was looking to rent some of the shop space to someone in a "compatible business."

I went in and introduced myself. The owner of the shop was Renee Duchet. She explained that before the war, she had shared the space with a milliner, but that the poor man had been killed by the Germans for violating a curfew restriction. She had been struggling to pay the upkeep on the shop and eke out enough to live on as well. A widow, she lived above the shop. Her husband was also a casualty of the war, fighting in the French army. Renee was a very attractive lady, only a few years older than I, slightly taller, but about the same dress size.

We spoke for a while to get better acquainted. I gave her a brief history of my background, reasonably truthful except, of course, for my military experience and my birth gender.

I had to be very creative about my being hidden in an orphanage before my family was taken by the Nazis when they came for the Jews, then handed over to a convent for shelter to wait out the war. How my family was all gone. After all, this was all plausible for a little girl. And now, as a grown woman, I’m trying to establish myself independently with the skills I had learned in the convent. I was really lacing my story with half-truths, the largest being my gender. Actually, in my mind, I had accepted the fact that I was now a woman, just that I wasn’t actually a female.

Renee agreed that a dressmaking business would compliment her hairdressing salon. She felt that her established clientele would be willing customers for my dresses and I could, in return, assist her with hair styling if needed, having acquired experience in the convent.

It wasn’t long before we had come to a deal. I paid her the first month’s rent in advance. It took most of the money I had left but I knew there was more coming…much more, but I’d need funds to acquire a sewing machine, other supplies, and fabric.

I slowly gathered the necessary items to commence operating my dressmaking business. Starting with the basics…needles and thread, I began with simple repairs and alterations. It progressed from there. By word of mouth, I located a salvaged sewing machine which was repairable, and moved ahead.

Renee and I became good friends, spending many hours together socially. Being from a rural area, I had no experience with city life (as a woman) and also none with cosmetics and sartorial selections so she became my mentor in applying makeup and coordinating a wardrobe of Parisian fashions such as were available after a war. I had never seen myself in anything but basic black convent attire so it was a pleasant surprise to see the effects of full makeup, a colorful Parisian dress, silk stockings, high heels, and my hair in anything but a braid or a bun. I loved the look and sensation and was immediately hooked. Renee offered to share her wardrobe with me until I could afford my own which I graciously accepted. Another learning experience for me, the application of cosmetics and coordinating clothes...and walking in high heels.

When my room rent became due, and with my finances running lean, Renee invited me to move in with her which I readily accepted. Unfortunately, hers was a loft above the shop with only one bedroom which meant we’d be sharing the bed. This was not an uncommon arrangement for the times for people of the same gender, but I was concerned about her discovering my secret and her reaction to it. Our relationship had become very close, and as two lonely widows, it evolved into a somewhat intimate one. That was inevitable. We were dressing and undressing in close quarters, sharing a bed, and occasionally touching each other even if only by accident. I tried to be very discreet in exposing myself in full nudity and any "accidental" contact. But it was by one of those "accidents" that Renee discovered an appendage on me that shouldn’t have been there. She was expectedly surprised, but not alarmed. In fact, she was impressed that I had concealed my true gender so well and for so long. For all outward appearances, I was a woman in every aspect but for one addition. As a result of all the strange events occurring over the recent few years, Renee wasn’t easily shocked anymore, but she did ask for an explanation. I had to disclose my real story…I felt I could trust her.

Renee was very understanding and accepting of my situation. In fact, she was quite sympathetic with everything I had been through and my reason for remaining as a woman. After all, what choice did I have? And I had transitioned so well.

My revelation opened the door to a romantic bond which had been developed between us but had been obviously suppressed. I had fallen in love with Renee but didn’t dare act upon it. And she felt a closeness towards me that was ready to bloom. And bloom it did. We became lovers, immediately.

My dressmaking business became successful and I was able to hire women to help sew and handle the bookkeeping while I concentrated on design and customer relations. In the latter area, Renee assisted me. We expanded the operation to fill her shop and she gave up hair styling.

In time, we moved to larger quarters, and I adopted a logo of using my initials for a trademark on all my products and designs which became know all over.

I wanted to marry Renee, but obviously, that was impossible since I was legally a war widow, and my papers showed me to be a female, so we remain as life partners as well as business partners.

The business has grown to nationwide sales in women’s fashions and is looking to going international.

Such are the fortunes of war. Starting life as a young man, I now live as a woman, in complete happiness due to circumstances beyond my control. Could I have gone back to life as a man? I suppose I could have, but I have no regrets remaining in the female persona. Perhaps it was my destiny to be a woman after all.

Dear reader, what would you have done?

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Alyssa Davis. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.