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At the beginning of August 1945 I was at a large camp for boys on the Dorset coast. I remember two occasions when the war, now distant and soon to be ended, affected our fun.
When we arrived we wee told that when we go to the beach we must keep strictly to the path, because the adjoining land had not yet been cleared of landmines. Whether this was true or just to frighten us from wandering where we weren’t wanted we never found out — nobody wanted to make the experiment.
There was one day which was quite different from all the others during the camp, because of the subdued atmosphere which prevailed. It was August 6, when the news of the atomic bomb at Hiroshima came through. Even the youngest boys could sense the awfulness of what had happened and what it might mean for the future of mankind. Games were played quietly that day, with little laughter; but there was much praying.
I joined in VJ-day celebrations round a bonfire on the beach at Ventnor, Isle of Wight. There seemed to be an underlying feeling that perhaps we should not be celebrating a victory hastened in that way, and a wondering whether we were at the beginning rather than the end of the horrors of war.

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