Dining Out Guide to Wartime London

Eat Where The Locals Go

In May of 1944 I was serving aboard a destroyer escort, accompanying convoys from the United States to England. On one trip I had an opportunity to visit London for a few days with two shipmates, a great adventure for us. A service organization provided us with a young English guide who took us on a walking tour of the historic sights. We asked her to recommend a restaurant for our evening meal, and she named one on a small side street just off Piccadilly Circus.

Not knowing that the British seldom dine before eight o’clock, we went to the restaurant just after six. The place was devoid of customers but it had everything we could ask for: wooden beams, dim lighting, a long bar, and an entertaining waiter with plenty of time for us. When we ordered oysters, he said in his Cockney accent, “I’m sorry, fellows. I’ve got 18 left, but I’m saving them for Winnie, er, Winston Churchill. He’s ordered those for this evening.”

Who were we to deprive the great man of his oysters? We settled for something else. While we were drinking White Horse and waiting for our food, a man walked in dressed in chauffeur’s livery and a leather-brimmed cap. He spoke briefly to the waiter, who went into the kitchen and came out with a small package. The chauffeur left, and the waiter came over to our table. “I say, fellows, Winnie only wanted 12 oysters tonight, so I’ve got 6 left. Do you still want them?”

How many people can say that they dined on Winston Churchill’s oysters?

—Earl J. Bruns is a retired industrial engineer from Ohio.

Victory in Sight

The End on Okinawa

The fighting on Okinawa was almost over. L Company, 32nd Regiment, 7th Infantry Division, was assigned the task of taking a grove of trees near the southern tip of the island, one of the last pockets of Japanese resistance. Our platoon leader was a former Marine who wanted the glory of reaching the ocean first. As we entered the trees, an American flamethrowing tank came up behind us; I suppose it had been assigned the job of burning the brush and flushing out any concealed Japanese.

Being the scout of the platoon, I was assigned the job of stopping the tank. I went warily back, got right up close, and shouted at the soldiers in the tank. They hadn’t seen me, and when they heard me, they threw the flamethrower in my face. I jumped back and began yelling obscenities so they would know I wasn’t the enemy. They settled down then.

When I got back to my company, the ex-Marine rushed us through the grove as fast as we could go. If enemy soldiers had been in there, we’d all have been dead.

We kept moving until we could see the edge of the cliff bordering the water. Our leader had achieved his objective. As platoon scout I was the first to look upon that glorious scene, the end of the Battle of Okinawa. And though I didn’t know it at the time, that made me the first to see the end of fighting in World War II.

—Keith K. Nelson, a former high school principal, lives in Colorado.

My V-J Day

It was nothing like Eisenstaedt’s

Every year in August, when newspapers and magazines run Alfred Eisenstaedt’s famous photograph of that sailor and the girl in their passionate embrace, I remember my brush with history. I too 77 was in Times Square that day. But brush-off might be a better description of what happened to me.

I spent the morning of August 14,1945, at a city swimming pool in the Bronx. The war seemed to be going well, and at 16 years of age I was bursting with patriotism and hormones. The pool was a great place to ogle the girls, even though the bathing suits they wore then would be too tame for the cover of my AARP Bulletin today.

I was hanging out with my friends and a handful of girls when the loudspeaker announced that Japan had surrendered and everyone was celebrating in Times Square.

“Wow! This is really something!” I shouted. “Who wants to go downtown with me? Come on, what do you say?”

Silence.

“I don’t believe this. No one wants to go to Times Square?”

Finally Mae, one of the younger girls, said, “I’ll go.” Even though we went to the same high school, I barely knew Mae. She was a freshman, about halfway to becoming a knockout, but guys like me, you know, sophomores, didn’t pay much attention to the new crop of kids. Yet that day was different. The war was over.

First I counted my money, because in those days the gentleman always paid for the lady. A buck and a half. Plenty.

The subway was filled with noisy revelers, but nothing prepared us for the scene in Times Square. Soldiers and sailors were climbing the lampposts, shouting, throwing their hats in the air. Everyone was hugging and kissing.

“Mae!” I exclaimed breathlessly, embracing her, “it’s over, the war is over!” I leaned forward to kiss her.

“I don’t kiss on the first date,” she said firmly. “We won’t have anything to look forward to.”

“But this isn’t a date,” I countered. “It’s an event, a celebration!”

“Please,” she said. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“How about a movie then?” I said, thinking fast. We were standing directly in front of the Criterion, and I hoped to lure her to the balcony. I don’t remember what was showing, but Cornel Wilde was the leading man. Nothing worked, not the balcony, not the darkness, not even the smoldering looks of Mr. Wilde. The film was nearly over before she let me put my arm around her shoulder.

When the movie let out, the tumult in Times Square was winding down, and we headed home. Ever the gentleman, I walked her to her door. She said she would see me around. I took the hint and didn’t try to kiss her.

I went home and plopped down on the couch. My unrequited ardor had made for an exhausting day.

“Why are you looking so tired?” my father asked when he got home from work. “You don’t do anything when you’re off from school.”

“I know, Papa.” I sighed. “But you gotta understand. War is hell.”

—Gerard Meister lives in Florida.