In the pink, thanks to Captain Penguin

REALLY, it’s who you know, isn’t it? I wonder if that military policeman remembers. ‘You, Private, where the hell d’you think you’re going? Get off the gangplank, this is a troopship!’ ‘But Sarge, I’m a trooper, look at me.’ ‘Go away, you’re going nowhere, conscript upstart.’ But you see, I had a day’s compassionate leave to come down from Salisbury Plain to Southampton to meet my seldom-seen parents who were returning from Canada after several years on government service and the aquitania was coming into dock, right now. However, to my astonishment, already in the next berth was this ‘troopship’, a big liner (P&O, I think), whose captain I happened to know as the father of a close school chum. I scribbled a note to ‘Captain Penguin’, as he was known only to family, gave it to the next sailor going up, and waited. ‘Tim, Tim, come on up,’ boomed the voice from an upper deck rail, and I made a point of not glancing at the MP sergeant. Looking back, that still seems the right decision. my modest khaki, at the splendid lunch in Penguin’s cabin, was overwhelmed by the blinding gold braid halfway up the arms not just of him but also of Southampton’s even grander chief harbourmaster, who had just dropped by, as I suppose he used to spend his lunch breaks. Then the pink gin came out… ‘Let’s go and find your parents.’ down the gangplank went a captain, then Private Topps, then another captain in charge of the entire port. as I caught the MP’s eye, I’m proud to say I didn’t whisper ‘Carry on, Sergeant’, but — oh! — I wanted to. my parents, summoned alarmingly by Tannoy to the aquitania’s bridge thence into the Captain’s cabin, were horrified to find a mass of gold braid with me in the middle of it. What on earth had I done? But then the forgiving pink gin came to the rescue.

Tim Topps, Oxford.