I was set up at a World War Two reenactment in Pennsylvania as part of an Army field hospital display. I portray an Army Major and a field surgeon in this group. We live in tents and display the equipment, jobs, and everyday lives of combat hospital in 1944.

Most of the reenactors who are part of the unit choose not to actually sleep in WW2 tents on cots, but flee to hotels in the vicinity of the event. I have my own tent which is located adjacent to the treatment tent setup. After the event closes for the day, the hospital is pretty much deserted.

It was past midnight when I was awakened by someone knocking on the front pole of my tent. I asked “Who is there and what do you want? We are closed for the night.” A very British female voice answered “Are you the doctor? I’m from the British camp.” I said “Give me a minute, I’ll be right there.”

Pulling on my fatigue pants I trod to the front of the tent and undid the flap. I was confronted by a 40ish woman in a white t-shirt, British trousers complete with suspenders, and unlaced boots on her feet. She again asked if I was the doctor.

I told her I portray a doctor during reenactments and have some military medical training, but I was not a real MD. I asked if there was an emergency and she said “No. No emergency. I just thought if there was a doctor here, I could get something.” She said her name was Judith and she was portraying a wireless operator in the British Army contingent. I asked what the problem was and if could it wait for morning, since a couple of the reenactors were actual nurses.

She said, with some embarrassment, that she couldn’t sleep, and that she had abdominal pain. I asked her to describe the pain and the location thinking she might have appendicitis and I would call 911. She sheepishly said, ‘no, it isn’t my appendix. Truthfully, I just haven’t gone, y’know, poop in several days.” She went on “The port-o-privies are foul, and they are reeking out in the sun. I can’t bring myself to sit in them for more than a quick pee.”

I told her our unit pays the organizers extra for a couple of johns located away from the public behind the hospital for our own use. I offered to show her where they were and would let her use one with the caveat that she tell no one of our secret stash of johnnies. She readily agreed. I donned slippers, got a flashlight and led her through the ward tent to our private outhouses. I told her I would wait for her in the ward so I could lead her back out when she was done.

Even though it was the middle of the night, the tents were still very warm from a day in the sun and being all closed up. I fired up one of the Coleman lanterns we use for light and waited for her to finish. Finally, I heard the spring on the potty door and the slam as the fiberglass door closed and she entered the ward. Looking around at all of the equipment, cots, IV setups, hot water bottles, medicine bottles, blankets, and supplies she said “it looks like a hospital – is all that stuff real?” I told her everything was real except us- “we are basically actors playing doctors.”

I asked if she felt better and she said, matter-of-factly, that “she was still corked up but appreciated the use of the loo.” She grumbled that if she was home, she would just take a laxative and take care of the problem. Then she again asked “Is all that stuff real? I mean, don’t you have any medicines?” I answered, that it was all real, mostly antique, and some things could be used but we have no real pharmaceuticals or drugs. We don’t really treat patients.” I added that a lot of what was on display was from my own collection and was maintained in working order but all of the pharmacy bottles were just props.

“So,” she said, “You cannot help me.” I caught my breath, not believing this was happening, and answered, pointing to the rack of hot water bottles hanging from a rack, “The best I could offer here at this time of night would be an enema. That is the only thing I can think of. That would be a quick fix for your problem, but I understand it would be awkward and embarrassing.”

She said, “Look here, I’m desperate right now.” She nodded toward the rack of hot water bottles and said “Is that what you would use? Do they still work?” I told her “Yes, sure, they are still pliable like when they were new in 1944. They are from my own collection. The attachments are stored here in the med chest.”

She shook her head and said she just could not believe she was going to do this but again said, “Alright, I really am desperate and need to do something. How do we do this? I haven’t had an enema since my Mum did this back in Chelsea when I was a kid.”

I said ‘first, I would heat some water on the Coleman stove and mix up a pitcher of soapsuds. Then we’d use one of the cots here in the ward. I’d give you the enema slowly and as gently as I can. Then, after filling, you’d use the port-o-john and hopefully it will fix the problem.”

She again said she could not believe she was going to do this, but reluctantly nodded. “OK.”

In short order I opened the med chest, fired up the stove, fetched the soap, and heated water. Took down the red rubber hot water bottle, assembled the red rubber hose, adapter, and steel clip. She watched me pondering the nozzles, but then I selected the black bakelite douche nozzle. When she looked surprised, I said “My own mother always used that kind. I think it gives a better enema.”

I fetched a white enamel pitcher poured in hot water, then cool water until it was nice and warm, then began swishing the bar of castile soap in the pitcher. She said “you seem to know what you’re doing. Obviously not your first time doing this?” I nodded and said “I not only collect, but use some of the collection. I have IBS and the only thing that helps is an enema. So, it’s not my first rodeo, I’m just not used to doing it in WW2!”

I took the bag and filled it with the soapy mixture, then screwed in the adapter and hose I had assembled. Judith asked, “Which one of the cots?” I pointed and brought over an IV stand next to the nearest cot. I told her the hospital had no screens, but I would do my best to respect her privacy.

She said, “Well, I thank you for your help. I assume you’ve seen a lady’s arse before and you seem to know your way around that enema bag.” With that, Judith unbuttoned her suspenders and her fatigue pants literally fell down. For 40+ years old she had a great firm plump behind! She said, “Here goes.” And off came her white cotton granny panties. OMG she was a sight. Just a t-shirt covering her milk-white skin. She had red-brown pubic hair and an old appendectomy scar. “See, no appendix!”

She got onto the cot and asked “how we do this?” I suggested a kneeling position, bottom up, head down. Meanwhile my blood pressure and little soldier were both rising! ‘She asked “Alright, this is embarrassing as all hell, but now what?” I donned a rubber glove and I scooped a glob of Vaseline onto my index finger and coated the nozzle until it was covered. Then I slid a finger across her pucker.

She gave a sudden shiver accompanied by a sharp intake of air. I asked if she was OK, and she said, “Surely not. A man I never met before is greasing up my arse in an old Army tent and I’m wondering if this is all real. But, please, Carry On, soldier!”

With that, I slipped the tip of my finger into her brown eye. She again started, but let out a long moan. I withdrew, then entered again, this time up to the knuckle. At that point I decided the lube was sufficient. I said, “Alright, now I’m putting in the nozzle.”

I slipped the hard curved nozzle in just past the holes in the fluted tip and opened the clamp to let the suds flow. I was hoping to force some solution past any blockage, and then the tip slid right in up to the hose. “Ack!” She said. Then, with less than a pint injected she squawked that I should stop.

I did, but said she had only taken a little and to work she needed to take some more for it to be effective. She asked me to please remove the nozzle, and I did. With that she fled, bare-assed out of the tent and into the privy. I could hear a gush, even through the canvas tent and then a long sigh.

She soon returned and I asked if all was now well. She replied that she “passed a few bits, but was still bunged up.” I told her she really needed to take more of the solution for it to work. She said “You sound like my old Mum. She always said I needed to take some more.” She reassumed the position on the bed and I again swiped Vaseline across her rosebud and slid my finger back inside. To which she replied “If I didn’t feel so bad, I just might get used to that!” With that, my little soldier was definitely at attention!

I again inserted the black nozzle. The whole scene was surreal: Her lovely milk-white ass penetrated by the glistening black nozzle, the red hose leading to the still bulging red bag hanging on an IV stand, the Coleman lantern occasionally sputtering and casting a circle of light on this wonderful cameo. It was wonderful – at least from my point-of-view!

The bag was slowly deflating and Judith was breathing fast as if trying to catch her breath. I rubbed her back and kept telling her “Just a bit more.” “Yes Sir, Dammit!” was all she groaned. With a sigh, the last of the soapsuds drained from the bag. I told her it was done, but she should try to hold it for a few minutes. I should have asked the tide to stop coming in. She started to jump up, nozzle still planted in her butt - which I removed before she took the IV stand with her.

She fled once again to the outhouse. I could hear her loudly groaning and was afraid it would wake the entire camp. Hours passed – actually a matter of just several minutes before she returned. By then I was refilling the bag from the pot of warm water on the Coleman stove. “What is that for?” She asked. “I’m feeling much better. I think I’m OK.”

I told her “The soapsuds can really irritate your guts. You really need to rinse out with clear water. No fooling.” She grumbled, “Christ Almighty, will this nightmare not end?”

I guided her back onto the cot and she presented her backside once again. I hung the bag and greased up the nozzle. I told her I would lube her up again. And I did! I could see her smallish 6-volt headlights that had been only dimly lit were now at high-beam intensity. It would seem she liked being poked in the bum!

Once again, I pressed the douche nozzle against her bumhole and like a camera lens, it opened up and let the nozzle in. I released the clamp and started the warm flow. Her reaction was “Hmmmm.” I was holding the nozzle firmly seated in her seat and I let a finger slip a little south. I encountered a warm damp jungle which I thought I might explore. WRONG!

She squawked “Oi! You’re off limits. No poaching! I’m a married woman!” I immediately withdrew and said “My apologies! Although I can see that you are finding this less than unpleasant.”

“I’m hot and bothered alright!” She said “first I can’t sleep, I’m corked up and the pots are ghastly. Then I’m here with a strange man with his finger buggering my bum. And now I’ve got my arse flooded with warm water and I’m damn well wet! I’m about two seconds from coming and I’m completely embarrassed by it all!”

Rather than answer, I started stroking the nozzle in and out ever so slowly. She just said, Oh, damn!” and pulled my free hand down to her clitoris. She had been right. In about two seconds of rubbing, she came. Loudly. Forcefully. Enthusiastically.

Simultaneously, the bag emptied and she collapsed, shaking onto the cot. After a minute or so, she said, “I’ve got to go. NOW, or this place will be covered in shite!” I watched her get up, with the dignity of a queen and with shaky legs quickly make her way to the port-o-jons.

I was in quite a state myself, wondering what in the world just happened. I was rock hard, but realized that no relief from my patient would be forthcoming. When she returned, I was just hanging the bag upside down on the rack to dry and cleaning the nozzle with alcohol. I asked if she was OK and she replied “Much better than OK.”

It got very awkward at that point and very quiet as she re-dressed in her underwear and uniform trousers. What do you say in this situation? She broke the silence with “You’ve been a real gent through this and I deeply appreciate the fix. I expect this will remain a private matter and I’ll not hear of it. Ever!”

I nodded and said my lips were sealed, and I was just glad to be of assistance. With that she saluted, “G’Night SIR!” and left.

What she left with me was a wonderful, one-of-a-kind memory which haunts me to this day. Did I see her again? Did I ever tell the story? No, and No. Until now.