Jack Wilson of Exeter, Ont., tells us of an incident aboard a Canadian frigate outward bound from Halifax in 1944:

An able seaman (AB) had joined us the previous night from HMCS Scotian, a shore base for experienced men who could be drafted at short notice to replace sick or absent sailors. The new hand had therefore never seen his new captain, who often wore a nondescript jacket without insignia and no hat.

The seaman had just begun a forenoon watch on the gun deck when the captain came along. He suddenly stooped and picked up a stamped-out cigarette butt. He thrust the butt at the AB and demanded: “I want to know who the hell owns this damned thing.”

The new hand considered the crushed cigarette end for a moment, then said slowly to the rankless, hatless officer: “I’d say you do, mate. You found it.”