Thank You for Your Service

When a WWII veteran came for breakfast, I knew what I had to do

For many years I owned a chain of Internet Cafes and Games Zones in the South East of England. One of these, based in a large town in the Royal County of Berkshire, also offered a full cafe and bar as well as the usual computer related services. It was here that an unexpected visitor made an appearance one sunny morning, not long after I’d opened the store.

Although the shops were fully staffed, I often included myself on the shift rota as I liked working the shop floor. It meant I got to spend time with the customers, the vast majority of whom were fun, respectful, polite or at the very least harmless. The grumpy or difficult ones made the days interesting and our eclectic collection of odd ball regulars were simply fascinating. It’s true to say that the infinite number of combinations possible meant that no two days would ever be the same.

But on this particular morning, a very elderly gentleman shuffled into the cafe. He was probably in his late eighties or early nineties at the time, but well dressed, neatly groomed and clearly still mobile, albeit with the aid of a walking stick. I didn’t recognize him as being a previous customer, but gave him my usual cheery ‘good morning’ anyway and asked if he needed any help.

“I’m just looking, thank you” he said in a strong voice that was as lucid and as clear as a man much younger.

Whilst listening to his response, I noticed he was wearing a dark blue blazer with a military emblem on the left breast. I politely inquired about it. In an instant he stood up straight, full of pride, as if being addressed by a senior officer. It soon became clear why.

“Royal Navy” he said ” ’40 — ’45”

I love to meet people who served in the war. Partly it’s because I love to hear their stories, but mainly because I am in awe of them. It’s impossible for my generation, born twenty five years after the end of hostilities, to really understand what they did, and even more so for the generations that followed. Nevertheless, it is critical that we try and essential we remember.

I asked him a few gentle questions about where he served to gauge whether it was something he would talk about or not, and was pleased to get some limited details from him. He’d served in the Pacific mainly in the latter part of the war against the Japanese and clearly seen some action. He mentioned the name of the ship he had served on, but at this point, the cafe had started to get busy and my relief had not yet arrived.

Sensing he still hadn’t decided what we wanted, I asked him to take a seat and I’d come to him to find out when he was ready. We didn’t usually do table service, but I was happy to make an exception for him and, in truth, I think he was glad to sit down.

Within a couple of minutes I’d dealt with the rush, and I was eager to get back to the humble navy man now sitting at a small, round table in my little cafe. I asked him what he’d like.

“Oh, just a bacon sandwich, white bread, and a mug of tea please” he said, thrusting a crumpled ten pound note into my hand.

“No problem at all, Sir” I said as I gently pushed the tenner back towards him.

“We’ll sort that out later… save me coming back with the change” I explained, giving him a smile as I did so.

With the kitchen equipment already at temperature, it only took me a few minutes to put together the simple breakfast he had ordered and, as I laid it done in front of him, he once again offered me his money, now warmed from his palm.

“It’s OK” I said “we’ll sort that at the end, just relax and enjoy your breakfast”

He was sat near the counter, so in-between me serving customers and his mouthfuls, we continued an ad-hoc chat discussing the weather, where we were from and, of course, his military service. Like so many veterans who saw action, he was reluctant to talk details and I didn’t want to disrespect this by pushing too far. I’d witnessed this before, in fact, from the men who had served in my own family, now lost to time.

However, I did glean that the walking stick wasn’t due to old age; he’d had it for the sixty years since the war ended and had been the reason for his discharge in 1945. It seems his ship had taken a hit in a fleeting skirmish just when it seemed he was going to come through the whole thing unscathed. In typical veteran style, he still considered himself ‘lucky’.

The cafe became busy again and we weren’t able to continue the conversation to any meaningful degree beyond this point. Soon enough, and while I was still busy, he finished his breakfast and stood up with a well practiced heave on his walking stick. Straightening his blazer and checking his collar and tie, he shuffled to the counter to pay, once again producing the tenner he’d tried to impart twice before.

“Very nice” he said in his confident baritone voice “just what I needed. Lovely little place you have here.”

“Thank you, Sir” I said, gently pushing his hand with the tenner back towards him. “But this one’s on me”

He seemed genuinely shocked and, for a second, I thought I may have offended him. So I quickly added these words:

“You might sometimes think my generation isn’t always appreciative of what you guys did for us, but we are. Thank you, thank you for what you did. This one’s on me.”

It was a clumsy sentence, the delivery equally so, and I berated myself for not getting it right. After all, I knew damn well this man wasn’t going to pay for his breakfast right from the start and I’d had plenty of time to decide how I was going to frame my reasoning. It’s not like I made it up on the spot.

The old man stood motionless. His mouth was half open and I clearly saw moisture forming in the corner of his creased eyes. He blinked, looked down, looked away and then looked back.

Now in a much quieter, shaky voice he simply said “Thank you …. thank you.”

I smiled and there was a sort of brief, lingering look between us. Then he turned away, shuffled into the sunlight and was gone.

I never saw the old man again. The passage of time all but guarantees that I never shall, but every day until I sold the cafe a few years later, I hoped I would see him and learn more about what he had done.

For the longest time I had a nagging doubt about whether I’d done the right thing — realizing afterwards he may have seen it as charity rather than gratitude — but I hoped that wasn’t the case. After all, he’d spent five years of his young life fighting a war in foreign waters. For me. And millions of others.

The very least I could do was buy him breakfast.

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