The Queue

The fragrant breeze of an English summer kissed Peter Newkirk's cheeks as he stood in a queue and shut his eyes for a moment. It was a warm August afternoon, near the end of a long day. He was home. The war was over.

The waiting, on the other hand, went on and on. Every day, it was another queue. Queue for the bus. Queue for the tube. Queue for ration coupons. Queue for the tobacconist's. Queue at the chip shop. Queue at the public baths if you didn't want to bathe in the kitchen and shock the ladies of the family.

Now it was time to queue for demobilization. His turn had come at last. It didn't seem possible that it was his last day in uniform.

He tugged at his shirt collar. He'd ditched the roll-neck jumper when he was issued a batch of fresh uniforms upon repatriation. But somehow he could still feel it, keeping him warm through the cold German winters, scratching his neck on the rare summery days.

He'd begun the day at Victoria Station, jostled with dozens of RAF men bound for Uxbridge, and queued for motor transport for the Personnel Despatch Center. They'd queued for lectures, a medical exam, their pay, and their employment cards. Now, finally, they were queuing for their demob suits.

"Can't wait till this ruddy day is over," grinned a sergeant standing in front of him. He was about Newkirk's age, and shorter by a couple of inches. "Six bleeding years in RAF blue." Despite the complaint, he sounded good-natured.

"That long for you too, eh?" Newkirk replied. He offered the man a cigarette, lit it, then lit one for himself, inhaling hungrily. "Last time I was out this way, it was to take my girlfriend to the Uxbridge Lido. Of course, it rained." He grinned at the memory of another August day, three years before war had altered the lives of everyone he knew.

"More of a Finchley Lido man meself," the sergeant replied. "I'm called Nesbitt."

"Of course you are. The RAF wouldn't fail to alphabetize us, would they? I'm Newkirk." They shook hands. "Where were you deployed before it ended?"

"Me? Oh, I spent most of it sitting on my arse," Nesbitt said, suddenly looking sheepish. He leaned in closer. "I was a POW for a stretch. Not exactly the best way to fight the enemy."

Newkirk choked on his smoke. "Me too, mate. Me too," he sputtered.

"Really?" Nesbitt said, equally surprised. "Where were you taken down?"

"I was with a ground crew at Dunkirk," Newkirk replied. "We didn't stand a chance."

"Me and my crew were shot down over Tunisia in March of '43. Took them 10 days to transport us to Germany. Lower Silesia." That, Newkirk knew, was far from Stalag XIII.

They traded stories of Dulags, imitations of Kraut guards, and tales of awful soup and sawdust bread. They found humor in their similar experiences, and they felt relief. There must have been other POWs demobilizing, but it wasn't something most men volunteered. For Newkirk, it felt like being around his mates again.

It was nearly an hour before they reached the head of the queue. Racks upon racks of demob suits were on display. Newkirk examined the options with a discerning eye. He could have a double-breasted pinstripe three-piece suit by Simpson's of Piccadilly… or a single-breasted jacket with flannel trousers from Fifty Shilling Tailors. All the choices looked fairly well made.

"May I ask your size, gentlemen?" a man with wispy grey hair and furrows around his eyes inquired. One look at his hands and the way he bent forward at the waist, and Newkirk recognized him as a fellow tailor.

"38 Regular," Newkirk replied, eyeing the single-breasteds. He wasn't, but with enough fish and chips, he'd fill out eventually.

"38 Short," Nesbitt added.

The tailor sighed. "It's been terribly busy. I'm afraid we're out of the most popular sizes. But I can offer a 37 or a 39 Regular, alter them, and dispatch them by post."

"No need to alter mine. I'm a tailor myself," Newkirk informed the older gentleman, who smiled gratefully.

The two men tried on suits, then each filled a small suitcase as they progressed through the queue. They picked out a hat, two shirts, a tie, shoes, socks, and a mackintosh. They collected clothing coupon books. They were about to go their separate ways when Newkirk realized he hadn't asked the obvious question.

"Which Stalag did you end up in?" Newkirk asked.

"Three," Nesbitt replied. He raised his eyebrows, anticipating a sign of recognition.

Newkirk inhaled sharply. "Blimey. Did you work on…"

"The tunnels? Yeah. Didn't make the cut for the escape, though. I didn't speak enough German. Anyway, it was the officers' duty to escape, so they went first. Them, and one Norwegian sergeant."

"Bloody awful." Newkirk remembered the excitement they all felt when news of a mass escape reached Stalag XIII. And with a sudden chill, he recalled the crushing blow of the recapture and execution of 50 men.

"Yeah. Not much to say without a pint in me hand," Nesbitt shrugged. Newkirk couldn't blame him; where would he even start? Through a haze, he heard Nesbitt ask, "Where were you, then?"

"Wot, me? StalagLuft Thirteen."

It was Nesbitt's turn to look surprised. "I heard some interesting things about that lot," he said quietly. "Stories about Papa Bear. It's hard to believe they were true, but a bloke can hope."

Newkirk suppressed a smile and gave a noncommittal shrug. "There's not much I can say to that, with or without a pint. Sorry."

Nesbitt looked crestfallen, the way Carter sometimes did.

"But perhaps we should have that pint anyway," Newkirk hastily added. "We passed a pub near the railway station. Come on, mate. The sun won't set for hours, and there's a breeze coming up."

Author's Note: The escape in question is The Great Escape from StalagLuft III in March 1944.