DRESS BLUES

Vic was probably the quietest man I ever knew. It was not that his voice lacked volume, or that he tended toward whispering; on occasion he could make as much noise as any of us. No, the fact was, he was one of the world's rarest of individuals-he only spoke when he had something to say.

We first met when Vic was posted to the military station where I had arrived some four weeks before.

I had returned to the barracks very late one Sunday night, after a 72-hour pass. I was immediately besieged with questions from my barracks-mates concerning my leave. They had to know how much beer I had consumed, and how many women I had seduced. (These and various other details were of the utmost importance to an isolated group of 19-year-old man-boys.) I lied of course, which was expected of me, and the more outrageous my stories became, the noisier we became.

"For God's sake shut up!" This large voice came from beneath a pile of blankets untidily placed on the previously-unoccupied bed next to mine. A chorus of laughter and mostly-unprintable but imaginative remarks greeted the plea for quiet, ranging from his questionable ancestry, through his penchant for certain adolescent male excesses, to accusations of sexual inadequacies. This repartee, together with a small and rather inaccurate shower of boots and other unattached items, was aimed at the still-invisible owner of the large voice.

As the uproar subsided I walked over to the offending pile of bedding and, pulling away a blanket, revealed a round face, liberally freckled and containing two very dark and very hostile eyes.

"I'm Jack," I said, thrusting out my right hand.

"I'm Vic," he answered, ignoring my outstretched hand. "Now can we get some bloody quiet!"

Vic being a driver and I a mechanic, our everyday duties inevitably threw us together; we grew at first tolerant of each other, then friendly, and finally, after a few weeks, we became firm friends. We spent most of our free time together; each included the other in any recreational plans; and most importantly, we supported each other in that most ego-devastating of all pastimes, the pursuit of girls.

I have always been accused of talking to anything that stayed in one place long enough, and have often thought that Vic's terseness and my garrulousness made our friendship very unlikely. But perhaps our successful comradeship was due to these differences, which relieved Vic from the chore of talking and myself from that of thinking.

One afternoon we were whiling away the time between the end of our workday and going to the mess for our evening meal. An unusually quiet card game was in progress on the first cot inside the door of our barracks room. Three beds were occupied by sleeping forms. I was intent on a crossword puzzle, and Vic was reading a letter just received from home.

"My Mam says my brother wants to sell his dress blue uniform," he announced to the world at large. I knew, however, that the statement was meant for me, and immediately I was blinded by the vision of myself resplendent in blue.


"What regiment?" I asked, struggling to sound calm. "Royal Artillery, same as us," Vic replied.

Bulls-eye! It was common knowledge to all of us that girls were attracted to a uniform, and I was positive that a beautiful, dark blue outfit could not fail to draw them in droves.

Then came sudden panic. "What size?" I hesitantly ventured.

"Our size," Vic answered. The panic vanished to be replaced with the knowledge that this was to be a partnership acquisition, due, I surmised, to the cost of the glorious suit.

Our size. That statement didn't seem at all strange to either of us.

Our size, even if I was about three inches taller than Vic, with a physique resembling a mop handle while he looked like a duffle bag stuffed with volleyballs. Obviously we were both obsessed by a mental picture of ourselves having to forcibly drive away the crowds of girls our dark blue beauty would inevitably attract.

In order to understand the tremendous desirability of dress blues, it must be realized that the British Army's standard-issue uniform of the late 1940's was, to say the least, uninspiring. We had long been aware of the fine material, color, and tailoring of the every-day suits of our American counterparts. We had admired the French uniforms; even the grey issued tunics worn by the German POW's seemed to make them look very military.


But the regular British uniform almost defied description. It consisted of a blouse-type tunic self-belted at the waist, with oversized and flapped breast pockets and a primitive collar fastened at the throat by two hooks and eyes. The trousers sported a large map pocket on the front of each leg, making it almost impossible to obtain even the suggestion of a pressed crease.

This euphemistically termed "battle dress" was made of a coarse, hairy, dull khaki-colored material whose evolution from the back of a sheep was all but a rumor. At best, by dint of careful folding and pressing, it was possible to look like a carefully- arranged pile of large balls of string. At worst, we looked like so many unmade beds. The whole thing was obviously designed by an avowed pacifist and was calculated to induce so much laughter in an enemy force that they would roll helplessly on the ground and thus be rendered ineffective.

As far as I was concerned, at this point there was only one question left. "Did your mum say how much your brother wants for the blues?" I asked.

Vic looked me straight in the eye with the obvious intention of gauging my reaction. "My brother wants eight pounds for it," he said, hastily adding, "Do you think that's too much?"

I made a tremendous effort to keep my face devoid of all expression. Eight pounds was only four pounds each, bearing in mind this was to be joint ownership, I thought, but four pounds represented two weeks' pay which meant some real sacrifices would have to be made. However, I reasoned, the anticipated privations would be nothing compared to the figure I would cut in that glorious uniform, and the resulting hordes of beautiful young ladies I could not fail to attract.

"No Vic, I think eight pounds is about right," I answered. "Mind you, I don't have the money right now, and it might take awhile before I can scrape four pounds together," I added.

Vic's face broke into a relieved grin. "In about four weeks I'll be going home on seven day's leave," he said. "Do you think you'll have the money by then?"

"I don't see why not," I answered with a confidence I really was not feeling.


The next four weeks seemed to fly by. I first decided to collect the money I had lent over the past several weeks, and unmercifully hounded my debtors until they paid me off just to be rid of me. I used my artistic ability to sketch many voluptuous pin-ups for which I was mostly paid in cigarettes, readily converting them into cash from the heavy smokers among our civilian employees around the barracks. I also took over some guard duty and duty driver assignments from my motor transport comrades, for cash consideration.

All this effort, plus money set aside from my own meager earnings, resulted in my being able to present Vic with four one-pound notes on the eve of his departure for home.

The next seven days took at least a month to pass until, late one night, Vic entered our barracks room, dragging his duffle bag and carrying a fairly large box wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

"I've got it," he announced. Throwing his bag on his bed he came toward me waving the package over his head.

With barely-controlled excitement I watched Vic place the parcel on his bed and start to untie the knots in the string. This is just like Christmas, I thought, as he fiddled and fussed with the balky fastenings.

Finally I could stand it no longer. "For God's sake," I exclaimed and, taking out my pocket knife, I cut the string in two places. Vic looked up at me, grinning widely.

"Patience is a virtue," he recited, "possess it if you c-"

"Go to hell," I interrupted. "I want to see the blues."

He discarded the brown paper and took the lid off the cardboard box. Folding back some tissue paper, he removed the uniform and carefully laid it out on my cot.


It was beautiful! I gazed enthralled at its dark blueness, at the trousers with a bright red stripe extending from waist to ankle on the outside of each leg. I saw the high-collared tunic with a gleaming white braided lanyard around the left sleeve at the shoulder. And the buttons-a row of sparkling brass down the front of the coat, each one bearing an embossed cannon at its center. I reached for my red and blue dress cap, purchased months before and only worn with khaki until now, and placed it on the blue uniform. The colors were a perfect match.

By this time, those of our barracks room-companions who were not sleeping had gathered around the blues, emitting appropriate oohs and ahs.

"Whose is it?" asked Ron McCabe.

"Ours," I answered proudly. Ron looked from me to Vic and back to me, and then exchanged glances with a couple of the others but said nothing more.

For the next few days Vic and I would look at the suit at odd moments. By Thursday, it became obvious that we would have to find some means of deciding who would be the first to wear the dress uniform on the coming Saturday night.

"How about we just flip a coin?" I suggested. Vic agreed, I flipped the coin, Vic called, and I lost.

Saturday afternoon Vic started to prepare for his debut in the dress blues. He had decided to take a recreational bus into a nearby small town. There, the local parson, aided by members of his congregation, tried to keep us young men out of the local pubs by holding a weekly social for area soldiers and local girls in the church hall.


About thirty minutes before his departure time, Vic paraded for us in his finery. He looked great-we all said so. Of course I was sure nobody would notice that the buttons of the tunic looked somewhat strained across his chest, or that the sleeves reached to his knuckles. I was equally certain that the trouser legs baggily dragging on the floor would go unremarked.

That is, until Ron observed, "Perhaps you could tighten your braces to pull the trousers a bit higher." Vic demonstrated that if he raised them any more the crotch most likely would cut him in two. Finally, amid much good-natured advice on how to handle the swarms of beautiful girls he was going to draw, Vic left the barracks on the inaugural display of our newly-acquired splendor.

After spending my Saturday night with barracks chums Ron McCabe and Ginger Grant at the village pub, drinking beer and playing darts with some local men, I returned to barracks and settled down to await Vic's return. Shortly after midnight he entered the room, waved a greeting and, walking to his bed, sat down. Immediately he was surrounded by a small group of very inquisitive soldiers.

"Well, how did it go?" asked Ginger.

"I had a good time," Vic replied.

"I mean did all the girls go for you?" Ginger persisted.

"Not exactly..." Vic answered, starting to look a bit uncomfortable. By this time we were all becoming exasperated at Vic's reticence.

"Tell us what happened," snapped Ron, completely losing patience.

"Well, I saw Margaret," Vic offered. We all groaned. Margaret was a small, attractive brunette who was always friendly to everyone, especially if a soldier looked forlorn and left out of things. She was a good dancer, danced every dance, and made anyone she danced with look good. Margaret was also the parson's daughter, usually arriving with her father and always leaving with him. What Vic was telling us was that he'd done no better with the girls in his dress uniform than he'd always done without it. We reluctantly returned to our beds, as there was no story here. I lay on my cot awaiting sleep; I vowed it would be different next Saturday when I would be turned loose on the female population in all my glory.

After much anticipation, Saturday finally arrived. After a shower and a meticulous shave, I donned the blues. Since we had no full-length mirror in which I could admire myself, I had to settle for holding a small shaving mirror in one hand to display various vantage points. The tunic buttoned with room to spare and appeared to hang perfectly, although the sleeves were ever-so-slightly short. Ron wandered over with the air of a self-appointed sartorial expert.

"Perhaps you could loosen your braces a bit to let your trousers reach your shoes," he suggested. I loosened my braces and lowered the trousers until he assured me that they and the shoes had met.

Of course, although I didn't realize it, the lowering of the trousers resulted in their seat taking a new position about midway between my bottom and my knees, and considerably below the hem of my jacket. Never having been one to look back, I didn't give this a single thought and left on my Saturday night adventure in high spirits and full of confidence.

As Vic had done the week before, I decided to attend the weekly social and, by the time I arrived, the event was already underway. I stepped inside and stood by the door. A few soldiers from my battery waved a greeting, which I returned. Two of them came over to ask where I'd got the uniform and how long I had owned it. I looked around. Amazingly, the invitational looks I had anticipated from the young ladies didn't materialize! Although a few did glance in my direction, it was only as they would have had I dropped my refreshments on the floor.


I made my way through dancing couples to a row of chairs against the wall, and sat down to try to unravel this puzzle.

My deep thought was interrupted by a soft female voice saying, "I think you look very nice." Turning in the direction of the speaker I saw a "gentle" girl. By that I mean that in addition to her gentle voice, she had gentle-looking hair of a gentle color, a pretty and gentle face with gentle eyes, and she was even wearing a very becoming gentle dress.

"Thank you," I smiled as I slid over two intervening chairs to take my place beside her.

"My name is Doris," she said, extending her hand. I shook it as I introduced myself. I had seen her at the Saturday socials several times before but had never spoken to her, probably because I had never been alone before. Usually I was one of a group of soldiers out for an evening of fun, and groups of young men always seem to attract groups of girls.

I stayed with Doris for the entire evening. We danced, had refreshments together, and talked constantly. After the dance we shook hands and arranged to do the same thing in two weeks.

Upon my arrival back at the barracks, I was subjected to the same interrogation Vic had suffered the previous week. However, I handled things a little differently.

"Yes, I had a great time." "Yes, I danced with a different girl every dance for the first two hours, and they all wanted to keep me to themselves." "Yes, I finally spent the rest of the evening with the most beautiful girl in the whole hall-who thought I looked terrific."

Satisfied with the story of my successful evening, my barracks-mates returned to their beds. Rapidly undressing, I crawled exhaustedly into mine.

"Jack," Vic whispered, "was all that true?"

"Just the last part," I whispered back. "G'night."


For the next several weeks Vic and I alternated wearing the blues, and a couple of things soon became very apparent to me. Firstly, we could not go to the social together as it would be too difficult to explain why we both didn't wear our dress uniforms at the same time. Secondly, he and I were not spending Saturday nights with our friends as we had always enjoyed in the past. Also, although the blues had probably been responsible for my meeting Doris, we had to admit that the dress uniform had not accomplished what we had hoped when we bought it-namely, an uncontrollable improvement in our respective love lives.

One Saturday afternoon I tentatively approached Vic. "It's my turn to use the blues tonight," I ventured.

"Yes, I know," he answered with a somewhat puzzled expression.

"Well," I continued, "How about if I don't wear it and you and I go down to the pub and meet the others to play some darts and stuff?" Vic grinned from ear to ear.

"I'll even buy the first round," he said.

And neither of us ever wore the dress uniform again.

Almost two months passed, during which we both returned to our places in the group of our friends, enjoying the activities we had enjoyed "pre-blues." I continued to see Doris from time to time and Vic also met a local girl, enabling us to occasionally double date. The dress uniform was never mentioned by either of us, until one rainy Friday night.

Vic had just finished a 24-hour stint as duty driver, and, soaking wet, came into the barracks with a story about a great pub in a town some 15 miles distant where he and the duty officer had eaten their mid-day meal.

"We could go there tomorrow night if you like," he said enthusiastically, and I agreed to give it a try.


So, the next evening we made our way to the "Jolly Ploughman," which turned out to be a good pub with good beer, good food, and a congenial clientele. Among the people we met were two artillerymen from a nearby training camp. After playing several dart games with them, we all four sat down to enjoy some beer and conversation.
The talk inevitably turned to the trials and tribulations of being a soldier and the difficulty of trying to look good in Army-issue uniforms.

"A friend of ours has a dress blue uniform and he really looks good when he goes out," offered the taller of our new-found friends.

His companion nodded, "It would be nice if I could afford one," he said.

I directed a questioning glance at Vic and almost imperceptibly he inclined his head.

I turned to the others, "Why don't you consider doing what Vic and I did and go together to buy the blues?" I asked.

"That's a good idea!" exclaimed the tall one and, turning to his shorter friend asked, "What do you think, Fred?"

"I'm all for it," Fred replied. "But where'll we find a dress uniform?"

I tried my best to sound nonchalant. "Vic and I just happen to want to sell ours," I said.

"Why?"

"Because we'll soon be going back to civilian life and we'll have no use for it then," I answered.

I hoped they would not question me too closely about the word 'soon.' Vic and I figured we had a little over a year yet to serve in the Army, but I rationalized that in the life of an English oak tree a year could be referred to as 'soon.'

"How much?" asked Fred, coming straight to the point.

"Nine pounds," I answered without batting an eye. Vic looked worried.


Fred glanced at his companion and looked back at me. "Too much," he said. "We'll give you seven."

I attempted to remain calm and hoped my eyes looked dull. "How about splitting the difference at eight?" I suggested.

"Done!" the taller of the two exclaimed.

We arranged for the transfer of the dress uniform in two weeks. They would inspect the condition of the blues and, if satisfactory, the deal would be consummated.

Two weeks later Vic and I entered the Jolly Ploughman carrying the box containing the uniform to find the two prospective purchasers already waiting for us. After briefly examining the suit, they gave me the agreed-upon eight pounds and, with shining eyes and smiling faces, they excused themselves and disappeared through the front door. Vic and I followed them outside and stood watching them stride away, Fred clutching the precious box. There they went-Fred, about Vic's height but with a physique, or lack of it, like mine. His companion, as tall as me but with a body resembling Vic's.

As they passed out of sight we looked at each other for a long moment and then started to laugh. Within seconds we were completely out of control. We helplessly attempted to talk to each other but gave up in new outbursts of stomach-wrenching laughter, until with tears streaming down our reddened faces and arms around each other's shoulders, we re-entered the Ploughman to spend some of our new-found wealth.