It’s 1940 and you’re a bomber pilot in the Luftwaffe. One
night after a raid you’re making the return trip in the dawn’s early light when
you get spotted by a Hurricane and badly shot up. You’re uninjured so you bail
out, land in a field somewhere near Dover, get picked up by some sort of
patrol, and two days later you find yourself incarcerated in a POW camp. Still
wearing the same clothes. And because it’s 1940 you’re destined to spend the next
five years living a restricted life at His Majesty’s Pleasure along with a few
dozen of your compatriots. Still wearing the same clothes?
In all the years I’ve been alive the airways and bookshelves have been liberally splattered with dramas and documentaries about WWII, and yet I’ve never heard the need of a change of clothing being mentioned.
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