It was in England. I was still in my teens and had just been drafted into the RAF. Returning home from up north for a week's leave before embarking for India, I was struggling along with two heavy kit bags. The distance between my billet and the station was half a mile or more and wasn't on a bus route. Because I couldn't afford a taxi, there I was, walking for a bit, resting for a bit, and wondering whether I could catch the train.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a uniformed figure came up close to me. "Give me one of those, mate." It was an RAF sergeant. Before I could say a word, he had swung one of my bags up onto his shoulder and was walking along at my side.
To a young rookie, this was hardly believable—a noncommissioned officer going out of his way to help like this. But here he was, sharing my load as if we both belonged to the same family. When at last we reached the station with some time to spare, I found myself embarrassed. You don't tip an RAF sergeant! I stood there awkwardly blurting out my thanks and asking ridiculously if there was anything I could do for him.
