Undercover in the Officer's Mess

NaPoWriMo's Day 17 prompt suggests that we write a poem re-telling a family anecdote that has stuck with you over time.

My mum's Uncle Dick, greyed and portly,

welcoming us into his flat. Nine decades

of stories, anecdotes and experience.

Royal Air Force pension keeping him comfortable,

he hands me a cold glass of orange juice

and casts his mind back.

I realise, too late, I should be recording this.

Granville, my mum's dad, arrives at the RAF barracks,

war weary, the grit and oil of a hundred trucks washed from his skin,

The Cairo sand long gone from under his nails.

Some time in the 60s, out near the Suez Canal,

Granville is here to see his brother.

The familiar strangling Egyptian heat,

A world away from the mild and refreshing English sun.

Dick is an officer, a few decorations on his blazer,

quiet reminders of the roaring horrors of those six years.

His friends and colleagues are all his level,

The like-minded and fellow-afflicted.

A spare jacket is an easy procure, Granville's size.

His brother's disguise.

They enter the Officer's Mess, Granville quiet,

eyes roaming.

The war ends, he thinks, and only now do I go undercover.

Crackle of a snooker break towards the back,

a couple of pints being clinked together

in a thin layer of cigar smoke.

A door shuts. Eyes head to the sound,

a flock of salutes.

Warrant Officer on deck. Granville mimics the officers.

Dick makes some formal introductions. The blagging continues.

“I see you have the Africa Star,” says the Warrant Officer.

Granville nods. He's not felt this uncomfortably warm since Cairo.

“Well done.” A polite smile for Granville. A knowing glance to Dick.

The Warrant Officer departs. The brothers had earned their breakfast.