A Pound of Butter
Air Force Col. Jack L. Giannini has retired to Belleville, Ill. He resides with his wife, Margaret, and two schnauzers. He still butters up to old buddies.

The year was 1943, and it was autumn. Things were cooking in Tunisia, North Africa. The invasion of Sicily was in the making. Part of the mission of the 91st Fighter Squadron was to provide protection for the convoys traversing the Mediterranean.

On the outskirts of Tunis was a villa that had been converted into a restaurant. One can handle Spam and spinach just so long, and a restaurant run by some enterprising Frenchmen offered needed relief.

One evening several pilots from the squadron made reservations to eat at the restaurant. There was a good crowd in attendance, including local French civilians, French military members, and our squadron members. A small combo band was in full swing - all in all, pleasing to the ear.

Notable on the menu was the bread. Remember, Bizerte was totally destroyed in the African campaign and Tunis had suffered large damage. Industry and social services were sorely restricted, and the baking of bread was no exception. The bread served in the restaurant was crude brown bread, and each small loaf contained strands of burlap sacking. But it was a small inconvenience to suffer for an escape from Spam!

Earlier that evening, I had gone to the mess sergeant and talked him out of some butter. Now mind you, the butter we were served was heavy with a preservative - it had come a long way from the land of the big PX. But it was butter nonetheless and welcome. I had left the kitchen with a soup bowl full of the yellow stuff; it would help get the bread down, burlap strands and all.

The restaurant owner escorted us to our table. As our dinner progressed, a French two-star general made his way to our table. He was large, mustachioed, and missing his right hand and forearm.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I see that you have butter on your table," the general said. "This may sound odd, but we have not seen butter in Tunis for over 10 years. My wife and I love it. Could you find it in your hearts to spare a taste?"

"Sir," I said, "of course you may have some. Only one small request. You and the other French people attending this evening are in the same boat. Therefore, we request that you take this butter and distribute it among the people dining here this evening."

"I will be happy to comply. I know many of them personally, and they will be happy indeed at your generosity. I have long known of the generous nature of you Americans. All of the Allies know that you are in this war in a spirit of assistance, as your homeland is in no danger at the moment. We appreciate you being here with us."

With that he saluted left-handed and took the butter bowl. The dish was handed over to a waiter, who dispensed a sampling of butter to each of the tables. Deprived for so long of a product so revered by the French, the diners fell into a conversational buzz that centered on the taste triumph.

The meal finished, we Americans rose from our table. As we stood, so did everyone else in the room. They applauded wildly until we disappeared from the establishment.

That meal will long be remembered by those who were at the restaurant that night in 1943.