Arnel

When I grew up, I had an uncle. I had several, but this story is about my uncle Arnel. We weren’t related as such, but I still regarded him as my uncle. I was not related to his wife either, so how I came to consider him to be my uncle is unclear. Either way, he took his role as an uncle more seriously than any of my real uncles did.

In his youth Arnel had been a sailor. He had sailed as a stoker on the seven seas and even more ships. I have counted 21 ships in total. I was impressed, but some of the elderly people around me took this number of ships to mean something else. He had been on 21 ships during five years. Five years of war I must add. I thought that was spectacular and a war effort he ought to be honoured and respected for. But the elderly didn’t see it that way. They saw a man that couldn’t hold on to a job. They also had an explanation for why. It was probably due to his drinking and fighting. “He called himself a war sailor and said he fought in the war, but the only fighting he participated in probably took place in bars around the world. He was probably drunk most of the time as well”.

As mentioned I had many uncles, but unlike several of them I had never seen Arnel drunk or for that matter drinking. So even as a child I found it hard to believe he was or had been a drunk.

Arnel and his wife lived in a part of the city called Convoy Town, a residential area up on the hill built for war sailors who fought and survived the war. From here you could see far out over the ocean. To one of the seas Arnel had sailed on. He had medals from his time at sea, but I don’t think any of the old rumourmongers knew anything about those credentials. They thought Arnel didn’t deserve to live up there. He who surely just fought and drank his way through the war.

Later in life I understood where rumours like this came from. Arnel had been quite a wild one in his youth before he became a sailor. With his nearly two meters, broad shoulders, and square face he had been involved in a bit of everything in the city. Both a bit of opportunistic petty crime and some bar fights. He probably wasn’t born with that crooked nose. There was also something about some bigger heists back in the days. One story had something to do with a dozen fur coats that fell off a truck.

People can change, I thought. But the elderly who loved to sit on benches and in coffee shops to gossip kept the old stories about Arnel alive. I wasn’t even born back when all this allegedly took place, so I rated him as I knew him. And in my life, he had been a steady rock I could always rely on. A gentle giant, I would say.

Arnel never commented on these rumours. He probably knew about them, but as far as I know never did anything to stop them. He just smiled and went on with his life. With his two meters he also towered well above the old men who butted their heads at his knees.

I have done some research regarding these ships Arnel sailed on. So far, I found that two was torpedoed, one was bombed by enemy aircrafts and Arnel got a medal for rescuing several shipmates, one ran into a minefield and sank, one hit a mine on its way to serve as a block ship during the invasion in Normandie – and I’m still searching for the fate of the others.

Arnel deserved to live up in Convoy Town. The demands for experiences are the same for people who live in small places as for those who travel out into the big world. In small places you hear a lot, but out in the world you see a lot. Arnel had seen a lot. Maybe a little too much. The people in this small town would always remember him for the things he did before he left to serve with his life at risk throughout the world war.

Only a bad reputation is owned forever.

_{Aerial photo of a November 1942 UG convoy}