The Things I Do for This Bloody War Effort

Mad, Simply Mad!

Newkirk has concerns and Hogan isn't helping...

Peter Newkirk - of the Royal Air Force, not the British Expeditionary Force, thank you very much - had never had what one would call a good or easy life. To begin with, he had a terrible relationship with his father. The old man often beat him for the slightest infraction. Whenever he was there, of course. It wasn't unusual for his father to periodically disappear for months at a time before showing up again. Then there was the fact his family had always been dirt poor, which came with its own issues. Newkirk had been hassled more times than he could shake a stick at over the raggedy clothes he wore. In turn, he had quickly learned that the best way to make bullies leave him alone was to fight them. Fighting and stealing, although enjoyable, had landed him behind bars so often the guards knew him by name.

Upon being released for the umpteenth time, Newkirk had decided to try and make a go of earning an honest living. He felt certain it couldn't be any worse than being a jailbird. With Mavis getting older, he was well aware it was his job as her big brother to set a good example, just as his own older brother had attempted to do for him. Newkirk wound up traveling with a circus and learned a variety of skills. Eventually, he became a somewhat famous magician, performing in such places as the Palladium Theater. His goal to be seen for who he was rather than his background had finally been achieved...until he was drafted into the military.

There, Newkirk encountered classist gits who only saw a poor lad from the East End of London. It infuriated him to no end. The treatment he received led to Newkirk despising anyone who was an officer on principle. No matter what nationality they were or what rank they wore, they were all the same - a bunch of pompous know-it-alls. Heaven forbid they listen to an enlisted man who had (quite happily, mind you) pointed out the flaws in their logic. 'If you weren't an officer, you were a clueless idiot' had appeared to be the RAF's motto. It'd taken everything Newkirk had to keep from being outright insubordinate with the snootier ones. Self-control had never been his strong suit. He hadn't asked for this war, nor ever had a desire to be in the military. Newkirk had figured since England wanted him to serve, people around him could bloody well deal with his snark.

He wasn't stupid. Newkirk had been fully aware the RAF needed him more than he needed them, so he knew they wouldn't transfer him to another branch. What else were they going to do, kick him out? That was fine...Newkirk hadn't wanted to be there anyway. Throw him in jail? He'd been a regular there at one point; he already knew how to game the system in his favor. The prospect of being behind bars again hadn't concerned him in the slightest. Kill him? Well, Newkirk couldn't say he was thrilled about the idea of death, but he'd assumed he'd probably be killed at some point during the war anyhow. From his point of view, it was better to go out on his terms with a smart remark than be taken by surprise.

After being captured as a prisoner of war and placed at Stalag 13, Newkirk's situation got a tiny bit better. Having only enlisted men around helped get rid of the bulk of his problems. But now he had a new set in their place. Namely, awful food and the ungodly hour of the morning that the first roll call was set at. Newkirk was fully convinced the Jerries in Berlin timed these roll calls solely to create more misery for the POWs. He was of the opinion that if they would let the men sleep in, there would be less escape attempts. Being rousted up at the crack of dawn and forced to stand in the cold until everyone was counted tended to fuel that desire.