One of my older friends was a Warrant Officer in a 'smart' regiment during World War II. One of his duties was to make sure that the officers were well-provided with the best food and drink available in the circumstances - served according to Regimental tradition, with all the comforts of home.
During the advance across northern Europe there was little to eat apart from rations, and the living conditions were Spartan. But one evening my friend excelled himself: finding a ruined barn, he set up trestle tables covered with purloined sheets; greenery from the neighbourhood was arranged in empty shell-cases, and makeshift candles cast a glow reminiscent of the Regimental mess. Chickens and vegetables were obtained - who knows how? My friend stood by proudly as the adjutant inspected the arrangements, expecting - as one might - a word of praise, or perhaps - even - an invitation to join the officers for their dinner. He received neither.
Some years later, as Company Secretary of an august institution in the City of London, my friend was getting into the lift when he found himself face to face with the former adjutant, who greeted him by explaining that he was on his way to an interview with the Company Secretary; did my friend know him? What was he like? It was assumed that my friend would, as in times gone by, perform his duty by making life comfortable for his superior.
But he didn't. As the lift doors opened, he raised his hat to the interview candidate and said: 'A word of advice, old boy - I wouldn't bother, if I were you'.
A story from Len Deighton's 'Fighter' shows the British warrior in all his eccentricity. Before World War II the Royal Air Force encouraged would-be aviators to learn to fly at weekends in units of the Auxiliary Air Force. One of these was known to all and sundry as 'the Millionaires' Squadron'. As war - and rationing - approached, the squadron's members began to worry about the availability of petrol for their Bentleys. The problem was solved when one of them announced that he had bought a convenient petrol-station for the exclusive use of his brother-pilots. But was it? On inspection, it turned out that the garage's tanks were only half-full. This problem, too, was quickly dealt with; another member of the squadron remembered that he was a director of Shell, and a call to his secretary procured a delivery the next morning.
One of my younger friends decided to take his 80-year-old grandfather back to the battlefields of the Somme to visit the sites where he had spent four years as an infantryman. Before departing, my friend checked his grandfather's suitcase to make sure he had the right clothes for cold weather. Hidden under the shirts and sweaters were three packets of Senior Service cigarettes. 'What on earth do you want these for, Grandad? You haven't smoked for years!' The old man blushed scarlet, and was eventually made to explain that, back in 1916, a packet of English cigarettes was the going rate for a temporary liaison with the young ladies of Picardy.