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I want to go back now to the early days at the outbreak of the war. The respected newspaper the 'News Chronicle' - with respected war correspondents like Vernon Bartlett - carried dramatic accounts of the threat of war, with Hitler intent on pursuing the Polish corridor, and the Sudetenland of Czechoslovakia. Following the horrors of the First World War these threats created a feeling of fear that we might be facing another devastation, caused initially by the Versailles treaty which humiliated Germany.

And so when war was declared by the UK on 3rd September 1939, as one friend or another volunteered an unsettling feeling came over the rest of us. I got my call-up following registration, and it was the greatest change in my life. As my mother wept, I left home and took the train from my home in Blackburn to Lancaster to the Bowerham Barracks, the home of the King's Own Royal Regiment, to train as a soldier. Bowerham Barracks is now Lancaster University.

On arrival I found myself among a throng of civilian clad volunteers, many of us looking lost and disconsolate. On our way to the Camp Commandant's Office we had to pass those who only yesterday had got their uniforms looking at us 'civies' with obvious disdain.

My misery and depression were lifted a little when a junior officer asked me if I played soccer. Even before I had got my uniform I wound up playing for the battalion that very afternoon!

Nevertheless I was also put through the rigours of parade ground drill, small arms rifle training, bren gun, grenade, and anti-tank weaponry. More enjoyable things were the route marches and singing songs like 'Roll out the Barrel' and so on. We marched with a bot of pride as teh local populace seemed to look on appreciatively at their defenders.

From then on we made personal friendships with one another. And then, after about seven weeks training we were now soldiers ready to be posted and re-mustered to our various regiments and units.

Hundreds of us found ourselves on trains in early January, not knowing where we were going. The army did not tell us where our journey would end. But after hours and hours we finally arrived in Llanelli in South Wales on a bitterly cold, slippery, frosty night, carrying our heavy packs and rifles sliding over the cobbly ice covered streets as we tried with discipline to march to our billets.

The billet for my section was a large empty shop and here we were desperate for a 'kip', but we had not even the luxury of mattresses as we had had in Bowerham Barracks. So we slept on our ground sheets on the bare boards on the floor of the shop premises - one blanket for cover as well as our overcoats, and our folded trousers for a pillow. Nevertheless, after some days we actually found our bodies straightened up and we actually became quite comfortable, and when I got home on leave I found my warm bed far too yielding!

In Llanelli we found ourselves part of the 53rd Infantry Division and I and a Bobby Jones - from Bury - and Dick Pepperell - from Hexham - were posted to the 531 Ammunition Company, which sounded rather dangerous to us.

Soon it was announced that Divisional HQ needed staff suitable to fulfill its function to direct the formation of 15,000 men in 3 brigades. So Bobby and Dick and I, and others, were inspected by a visiting Colonel Trustram-Eve. He must have wondered what kind of British Army we would make and what our chances of victory were. Within our hearing, he said to one soldier, 'And what are you?'
'A driver, Sir.'
'So, can you drive a 30cwt Bedford?'
'No Sir'
The colonel blinked, and passed on, before speaking to another soldier, 'And what are you?'
'Hygiene, Sir.'
'So you know what Chloride of lime is?'
'No Sir.'
There seemed to be so many 'No Sirs' that by the time he came to us we thought we must be rejects. However, as it happened he was seeking someone with administrative experience for staff work at divisional HQ. Jones, Pepperell and I were lucky to be posted there, and we were not sorry to leave the apparent danger of 531 Ammunition Company.

Eventually we were sent to Northern Ireland from South Wales, again on a long train journey from Stranraer. On the boat we were ordered to load our magazines as there was danger ahead, which shocked us, but when we landed on the docks in Belfast there were many buses and we were welcomed by cheering crowds as our buses pulled away to take us to our billets.

We were lucky to be billeted at Divisional HQ in Crescent Hall, with comfortable double-bunk beds and a Caretaker who would make tea in the later evening for a penny a cup. Also, we would get letters from Church Halls in Sandy Row pinned to our door, addressing us as 'Soldiers of the King,' inviting us to Irish Stew parties, and ending with 'Remember 1690 - God Save the King.' So our welcome was warm.

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