THE FIRST TEST

Rations.

He was tired of rations. Food rations particularly. After nearly five years of being cooped up in a box (most of the time) with limited food (except for LeBeau's gourmet cooking) and all of it being mostly brown bread and potatoes, he had hoped to come home and be able to eat as much as he wanted to.

But no. This morning, along with a payroll that he had not seen in a long time, he was handed a booklet of food rations.

This was one of those moments when his anger began to rise up uncontrollably as he compared the past, to now. Whenever he thought about how great it would be to get home, and find that a lot of things had gone bad or never changed at all. One prime example was that he came back to London to find rubble. Sure, many buildings remained standing proudly. But in other areas, especially in his neighborhoods that stood in the shadows of factories, it was utter devastation. True, he had known the Blitz had been bad, but he had never been prepared for what his eyes would see when he finally came home.

His anger was always pointed towards the war and mostly Hitler. He sometimes wished he could wrap his hands around that man's cowardly neck and wring it hard. When he verbalized that to his sister, she had been kind of disturbed. Her brother—the older brother she had looked up to forever—had changed. She had changed as well, but his change, after seeing battle and obviously other terrible things, was almost scary to her at times. It was almost as if he was not at peace with anything. There seem to always be some underlying anger inside his every word and move.

Fortunately, Mavis was not there to see Peter Newkirk receive his rations booklet. She did not see his eyes narrow and jaw clench or his fists clench up like he was about to take a swing at someone. Peter then marched out of the building and onto the sidewalk. The first thing that met his eyes was all the people.

And it struck him.

He was not alone. All these people here had gone through their own nightmares. They had all suffered in some way. When Peter was younger, he used to curse anyone who had a pound more than him. But there was different light shed on the matter now. The near destruction of London and other English cities had shown to the world how resilient the people were—whether they were as wealthy as the King or dirt poor or young or old.

Peter looked down at the food rations booklet. They all had food rations too.

"Oi! Peter!"

Peter looked up to see two men in infantry uniforms making their way to him. He smiled. They were old friends he had not seen since he had been captured. They all greeted each other with warm handshakes and congratulatory backslaps; something that was going all over the world now that the war was finally over.

"'Ow you been?"

"Right as can be considerin'," answered Peter.

"'Eard you were 'oled up in a POW camp, mate. Did Jerry treat you well?"

"Course they didn't. 'Specially when I kept tryin' to bust out!"

The fellas laughed.

"Say, 'ow 'bout we take this to the Red Lion Pub. It's still standin'."

"Is it!? Cor, I thought it surely 'ad been blown away!"

"Nope! Mavis didn't tell you?"

"She 'ad more important things to write about than pubs," joked Peter. "But c'mon, I could use a sip o' good English ale. It's been awhile ya know?"

They laughed again and started back for the street. As they went, a man sped by them, obviously in a rush. As he went by, he clipped Peter on the shoulder, and didn't even look back.

"Look at that bloke! Ruddy toff. Thinks 'e owns the place."

But Peter was not watching the man. His eyes were on a piece of paper he had seen fall from the man's pocket.

"Wot's this?" His friend picked it up, and a smile lit up his face. "Lookit 'ere chums, a 'undred pound note! I'll buy the drinks."

Peter looked up and saw the man turning into a building—the bank. His conscience started to battle with itself. Just take the money and go. That bloke would never know the difference. But a hundred pounds was a lot. If he had lost that, he would have been very disappointed. There you go thinking too much. Just take it and by yourself some ale. It can't be that hard, you used to do it all the time. Never thought twice. Why start now?

***** ***** *****

"Why'd you do it?"

Hogan turned and looked behind him. He was leaning on the side of the barracks at the corner, under the sign which readBarracke 2. He had been watching the camp quiet down, before evening appel, which would send them all back inside for the night.

Newkirk walked up to Hogan. "Why would you trade your life for seven criminals?"

"You're not a criminal," replied Hogan.

"But I am, sir," argued Newkirk. "You can't deny that. Everyone does. They all say the same thing: you're a good man Peter. But it's not true. I robbed people. If I'd lived in Bridgeport, Connecticut, I would've robbed you."

Hogan smiled. "Yes, you probably would have. But not anymore. I believe you and the six other men that were selected have changed. You wouldn't rob anyone anymore."

"You really believe that," asked Newkirk. "An' ain't askin' on sentimental terms 'ere. I'm askin' on the terms o' naivety. You really think that's 'ow the world works?"

Hogan turned on Newkirk. "I am not naïve. I know just as much about suffering as you do."

"Yea," said Newkirk. "You do. When the Nazis are involved. You know 'bout the Gestapo. You know more 'bout them cause you suffered with them. I'm talkin' about before this bloody war. An' wot's goin' to 'appen after it. You really believe that all the criminals that are fightin' now are goin' to go back 'ome and be good little church boys?"

"No," said Hogan. "I don't. But I have faith. That's what you lack, Peter: faith. You can't believe because you don't have the courage to believe. You laugh and you never mean it. You're afraid of trusting that good things can happen."

"'Ow can I trust when nothin' good everdoes'appen," asked Newkirk. "'Ow can I believe that things will get better when they never did? That even when I broke my back doin' right day after day, I never was able to better myself? You did everythin' right, an' you got wot you wanted. Just face the facts, Colonel, it doesn't matter wot I, or anyone like me does, cause it's never goin' to get better for us."

"Being poor and being wealthy does not have anything to do with it," said Hogan. "I still believe that you men, you menherehave changed. I know you Peter. You wouldn't rob anyone anymore. And even if you don't have faith in yourself or anyone else, I do. Because we're not fighting this war for nothing."

With that, he walked off, leaving Newkirk very much alone.

***** ***** *****

"Lemme see that," said Peter, holding out his hand towards his friend.

As soon as the note was in his hand he took off for the bank.

"Oi! Where do you think you're goin'?" They hurried after him.

Peter threw open the bank door and saw the man standing before the teller, searching through his pockets frantically. Without another thought of hesitation, he walked over to the man and tapped him on the shoulder.

"What?" The man spun around, looking annoyed.

"Um, beggin' your pardon sir, but you dropped this." Peter held out the hundred pound note.

The man's eyes went wide and he snatched it away from Peter's hands. "Good God! I thought I'd lost this. Oh, my poor boy would've been so distraught. He won it you know, on a horse race. I let him put in a few pounds, and it seems he picked the best horse! Well, thank you chum."
"No problem," said Peter rather hoarsely. "Um, 'ave a good day."

"You too Corporal," replied the man.

Peter turned, spotting his old friends standing in the door, looking about as shocked as they would have been had they known what Peter had really done in his days as a POW.

"Wait a minute Corporal."

Peter turned around, just in time to catch a five pound coin. The man smiled. "It's not a hundred, but go buy yourself a beer."

"Will do, mate," said Peter with a smug grin. He turned and walked out the door, his friends on his heels.

"Blimey Peter, nigh five years ago that you'd take that 'undred pounds off the ground an' bring it to the Guv'nor. Wot did Jerry do to you?"

Peter smiled. "It wasn't Jerry mate. But it was the Guv'nor."

And leaving them very confused on the corner, he headed on to the Red Lion Pub for a nice, warm pint of English ale.

The end.