The Sailor Who Ate Cucumber Sandwiches : Short Story

The Sailor Who Ate Cucumber Sandwiches

Bernard King 

Uncle Tom held a world record. Not an achievement he was proud of and had he been able, he would willing have given what was left of his teeth to have avoided it.

But the warm and buzzing lull of an August evening, the comfort of his favourite chair before a table with a plate piled high with fresh cucumber sandwiches and his wife, Gwen, buzzing between the kitchen and their back lawn behind a large brown teapot caused world records, even the most unwelcome, to fade beneath serenity, contentment and total happiness.

The crisp crunch of the thinly sliced cucumber, the welcome taste of rich yellow butter (the last of their butter ration), and the soft touch of the moist fresh bread combined to whisk him rapidly through the gates of Heaven.

Cyril and Janet their closes friends, relaxing with him, also munched and sipped in what they knew could only be a short pause before it would start again.

As he reached for his second cup of tea, Uncle Tom saw with relief that his hand, for the first time for days, had stopped shaking.

A merchant seaman, a master chef, he had been in his galley when the torpedo hit the hospital ship.

He ignored the increasing slope of the deck, and the groans and creaks as the dying ship began to break, helping wounded troops fight their way through the hatches was his priority. But a pistol, pointing between his eyes could not be ignored, and reluctantly he left his wounded comrades and with the rest of the crew who could still walk, obeyed the revolver waving officer and stepped slowly the life boat.
The sea beneath the lowering boat was death. The pain would not last long in the Arctic water they had been assured when they joined the convoys to Russia. Thirty seconds, not worth worrying about.

The boat smacked down on the icy waves, spouting a tower of spray that the wind bent over them, peppering his exposed face with needles tipped with acid.

The rescue ship, a ten thousand ton cargo vessel courageously slowed to pick those of them still alive after fifteen minutes, up. Uncle Tom was amazed. His legs still worked as the ice cracked from his trousers on his painful scramble up the safety net.
The cargo vessels captain’s courage was not repaid. Uncle Tom was struggling to lift his leg over the gunwale when the torpedo hit. Fortunately on the opposite side of the old boat. Hove to ships are easy meat for U-boats.

Uncle did not hesitate. He creaked his way back down to the rescue boat, waited until it was full and headed away from the stricken ship.

He hesitated as he climbed about his third ship of the night, waiting for the explosion, convinced the entire U-boat pack had him in their sights.

He was not disappointed. Three hours later, the familiar crash, The awful shudder, explosions and scream of ripping metal woke him up from his exhausted sleep.

But Uncle Tom’s name was not on the slate that night and the Nazies would not get him.
A royal Navy destroyer appeared alongside and Uncle was swung between the two heaving vessels, swinging wildly on bosun chair above the snatching waves.

His story of his escapades amused the captain of the destroyer. He telegraphed the fleet, demanding to know if any other poor soul had been equally entertained by the Germans that night. And, this the captain emphasised with a chuckle, had they changed ships four times without getting their feet wet?

There were no takers so Uncle Tom was bestowed with his dubious record.

But the noise and stench of war seemed very far away from Uncle Tom as he relaxed in the garden of his home in Hampstead on a gorgeous summers evening.

Except it was not.

Auntie Gwen, Cyril and Mabel, street wise veterans of the London Blitz, identified the Daimler Benz aero engine instantly - and dived, even before the roar reached a crescendo, under the table.

But Uncle Tom had been battle hardened on U-boats and battleships.

He watched, astounded, as a Messerschmitt 109, it’s supercharger screaming , flew upside down between the houses and over the gardens at zero feet, straight at him.
It passed, almost parting his hair, the pilot hunched down behind his armour plated seat.

For good reason. Fifty yards behind a Spitfire was spitting fire. The deadly chatter of its machine guns piecing the thunder of its Merlin engine as it closed on the tail of the Messerschmitt.

Bits were flying off the 109 as it leapfrogged the row of house at the bottom of the street.

The explosion as it blew up, fortunately over the open spaces of Hampstead Heath elicited a vertical climb and a victory roll from the Spitfire which promptly nosed away, looking for more trouble.

Uncle Tom could have heard the explosion but he could not have seen the victory roll or smelt the used cordite from the spent cartridges that tumbled into the garden from the Spitfires Browning machine guns, one of which had the audacity to clatter down the garden path and through the open kitchen door .

Auntie Gwen and her friend disentangled themselves from under the table to find Uncle Tom had vanished.

A peer over the table revealed two legs poking into the air. Still in his chair that had toppled backwards, Uncle Tom was now horizontal , on his back, and in deep trouble.

His face was blue, his eyes were popping as his chest heaved mightily, in vain for air. Yanked upright by three pairs of hands, three smacks in unison on his back from three different directions won the war.

The piece of cucumber flew, carving a graceful arc as it left Uncle Tom to slide gracefully to the centre of the table.

Two huge breaths and Uncle Tom reached for another sandwich.

“I’m bloody immortal,” he chuckled.

“I hope so.” Auntie Gwen looked serious. They all picked up the threatening beat of the approaching bombers. Yes, it was starting again.

Bernard King became a scripwriter for radio and TV in the early sixties, writing for the Bob Monkhouse and Denis Goodwin agency considered to be the top comedy office at the time.

Fifteen years ago he took up novel writing and to date has written seven novels and three compilations of short stories. He Presently lives in the South of France with his French wife and when not writing looks after grandchildren and watches the wine grow.
Read more of his works over at bernardking.co.uk