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201 Company was rarely all together. We were split up into detachments assigned to special tasks and often on attachments to Royal Engineers. My first assignment was to Toddington, near Cheltenham, where we unloaded coal for railway wagons and created a coal mountain. We were billeted in a freezing cold church hall where we slept on the floor and washed out in the open in cold water. And that mountain of cold next door around the corner. That was for the war effort, stupid.

In many towns and villages, thousands of public spirited men and women offered help, comfort and hospitality to the military units in the neighbourhood. I was introduced to two delightful locals, the Misses Freemans. Daughters of a clergyman, they had a lovely, peaceful cottage. Often, I was invited on a Sunday afternoon for tea, bread, jam and specially baked cakes. They were teachers I enjoyed the company and the chats which covered such a wide range of subjects. At times, they would gently counsel me if I got my facts wrong or made a grammatical mistake. They were an important part of my own personal fountain of life at which I have never stopped drinking.

There was always a little parcel of goodies including cakes and sandwiches to take away. When we moved away from Toddington, we continued to exchange news and views in regular correspondence and when I was abroad I looked forward to their air-mail letters. As was the fashion, Christian names were taboo. In letters, it was always ‘Dear Hardy’ or ‘My dear Hardy’. We continued to correspond in the early years on my return to England and sent each other Christmas cards until they passed on. I always intended to visit them in their new home but to my shame, never did.

Their new home? Ann Hathaway’s Cottage, Broadway, Stratford Upon Avon. Oh so appropriate! The Misses Freeman were lovely gentlefolk who helped to soften the harshness of war for one rooky soldier.

Next stop, Little Haseley which surprisingly was next to Great Haseley. A typical Oxfordshire village with Cotswold stone cottages — a church, infants school, sub post-office and two pubs. One working party was joined by a detachment of RAF engineers and journeymen for labouring work on one of several RAF stations located in Oxfordshire. Our billets were scattered around the village. I shared a tiny room with a Captain and we slept on mattresses on the floor. A well built, clean cut chap who delighted in displaying his equipment with intent. I did not pick up the invitation! We had two Sergeants in our platoon. There was Rupert who was very well aware of his good looks and charm. Very touchy feely, he always seemed to be in one’s space trying to get into conversation. A real creep. My experience in the few months I had been in the army gave me the feeling that I was still a callow, innocent youth.

The other Sergeant, Bill Owen was quite different. Very smart, trim of build, with hair plastered down in the style of the times. We thought he used black shoe polish on his hair. Bill was mad keen on drill although it was not compulsory for a working party such as ours.

In civvy street, he was an actor and organised a small village show for the locals. But he didn’t stay long with the Pioneer Corp and quickly ‘worked his passage’ into EMSA. I saw him in a few small parts in films but it was his part as Compo in ‘Last of the Summer Wine’ that captured the nation’s affection.

Sgt. Creep decided I needed to be separated from the Captain and the tiny room. The next move was to the Vicarage where Arthur Robertson of the RAF was already installed. The vicar was a miserable so and so. He spoke in a high pitch voice and an insufferable snob. He mad us feel very uncomfortable.

The rooms were crammed with valuable antiques which the vicar never ceased to remind us. Life was a misery having to strap our arms to our sides as we tip-toed through the rooms.

I told Sgt. Rupert I would have to go AWOL unless we were moved elsewhere. The village post office and general store came to the rescue. Oh so different.. Roses around the door, dirty clothes on the floor and the blackened bath with enamel flaking off was a reminder that Mrs Dansey, the post mistress, had other priorities. Over whelmed with paperwork and book keeping. Looking back, her warm welcome was possibly a ‘cry for help’ and we were able to give her some assistance. Mrs Dansey was a nice lady, an honest to goodness hard working person. If there was a husband, he wasn’t around. She prepared her cooking in a rough and ready manner — no frills but homely.

Arthur came from Dewsbury in Yorkshire and spoke in a pleasant Yorkshire accent. He was 19 and I 21. He was probably less mature than me, rather like a younger brother. I used to take the lead more often and used to go biking around the Oxfordshire countryside. Mrs Densey really tried to make us feel at home in rather cramped accommodation.

She was inclined to act like a surrogate mother particularly towards Arthur who with cherubic face and slight figure reminded me of my brother who died at 18. Always attentive, Mrs D would at times knock on the bathroom door and offer a warm towel which we took as we opened the door ajar. Whether she was hoping for something, I will never know.

Christmas Eve, we decided to go to Midnight Mass. It was a bleak night with snow on the ground. There was no heating in the church and a few lit candles which threatened to expire anytime. The church was freezing cold with the sparse congregation spread out in this mausoleum of this place of worship. I thought it would have been more sensible for them to huddle together to keep warm. As the service commenced, Arthur moved his hand towards mine and we held hands quite naturally throughout the service. We were two lonely souls, marooned in a world that had no affection. On the morrow, I would be digging holes or filling them up again and Arthur would continue to repair machines for the RAF. We were under the flight paths of the bombers. The Germans releasing their cargoes of death over London, or our own bombers tearing the guts out of the German industrial cities. The war was in stalemate. When would it all end? I have asked that question in church in many times. Poignant but enchanting, the two of us with an overwhelming ache for comfort, affection and love on a barren Christmas Eve.

Christmas Day, the men and the villagers did their best to create a festive atmosphere, with a Christmas tree, decorations and more than a few bottles of tipples.

Christmas dinner and the party afterwards did much to ease the pain of not being home for Christmas. Many of us drunk ourselves stupid. Often a show-off, I proposed a toast to the future with much clinking of glasses, forgetting that in the early hours of Christmas morning, I was proclaiming that there was no future. The hours spent is remarkable in its ability to repair and renew itself.

Early in the New Year, Arthur got posted to Canada. He applied to train for an air-crew. He succeeded and became a pilot. I imagine he looked quite fetching in an RAF officer’s uniform. I missed him hugely. Although we corresponded frequently until the end of the war, we lost touch of one another and were never to meet again.

Shortly afterwards, our detachment got moved to the Royal Ordnance Depot in Didcot, just a few miles away. I worked in the ammunition dump sorting and stacking ammunition. They humped coal at Toddington and I became quite strong. At night, I did my share of sentry duty. It was at Didcot I celebrated my 21st birthday on guard in deep snow drifts and bombers overhead. I called back on Mrs D several times as she said we left a gap in her life. She was the salt of the earth. I never met up with her again when I returned to England from Italy. I will try and explain.

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