HIDING NUDE IN A CUPBOARD!

THE Fleet was sailing from Malta for several weeks of exercises off the Greek islands, leaving behind literally hundreds of ladies in different stages of availability. I discussed the situation with the wife of the Signals Officer of a destroyer who had made it very obvious that she had no intention of sitting around twiddling her thumbs during his absence. The husband gave a party in his cabin before he sailed and said to me: ‘Look after Eunice for me till I get back.’ ‘I certainly will,’ I said, avoiding her eye. When sailing time came, Eunice and I watched the Fleet steaming out of the harbour. Eunice insisted that I take her to a party, escort her home and then . . . So we danced close and drank champagne; finally I found myself in her bed. Some far from routine thrashing around was going on when suddenly she went rigid. ‘Christ!’ she hissed, ‘he’s back!’

He was too — and downstairs. ‘Get in that cupboard,’ ordered Eunice. I didn’t have time to reflect on the old French farce situation. All I could think of was the certain death that would soon come up those stairs.

Eunice was made of different stuff. She went down naked to meet him. ‘Darling, how did you get back?’ The ship’s engine had lost a turbine 30 miles out of Valletta, he said, and his destroyer had been towed back to port. Somehow she persuaded him to get in the car and fetch a bottle of champagne so they could celebrate.

I dressed in about 11 seconds and, with my shoes on the wrong feet, shot out of the house.