Eventually we were sent off to Macaulay Camp in Victoria to be fitted out with underclothes, shirts and uniforms suitable for the coming winter. Women of the local Red cross fussed over us as if we were long-lost children, altering jacket sleeves and trouser bottoms, sewing divisional flashes and stripes on to tunics and overcoats. Nothing was too much trouble for them. We had more medical examinations and X-ray photographs, and after that we were free to go about pretty much as we liked. They were pleasant days, remembered with gratitude. We visited the town centre often for relaxation in the cinema or in the licensed bars, where the ale was sparkling and the welcome always cordial.

The cleanliness of the camp and of the township was in much contrast to the squalor we had lived in for so long, that we never lost our wonder of it. I felt better in health every day and was now walking about with a military zest that would have astonished the training staff of my Gloucester days four years before. It was all too god to be true - and inevitably, frustration came. The doctors told me the dysentery bugs were still at work in my body, and the very day we were preparing to leave Victoria for the journey across Canada I received orders to report for hospital treatment. Back came the gloom. It was a huge disappointment to me, and hope floundered again. I managed to brace up when I found another dozen in the same plight as myself. We tried to console one another, but I am afraid it was cold comfort. We said goodbye to those of our friends fit enough to set off for Vancouver and then got into our lorry and went back sadly to military hospital. Here the seemingly endless rigmarole of medical examination began all over again. I do not think I have any hypochondriacal tendency, but constant reminders of the illnesses I had suffered and survived while a P.O.W. tended to be depressing. I still have in my possession some of the medical sheets they made out, and for the layman, with their extensive detail of my flaws, developed and otherwise, they are a dazzling example of the art. They lay me bare to the soul. This implies no criticism of the main doctor concerned who was as sympathetic and encouraging as any patient might wish. He and his helpers did all they could for me; more, indeed, than anybody might reasonably have been expected to do.

One thing pleased me enormously in that hospital. That was the bathroom, where I used to soak luxuriantly in hot water several times a week. Some may consider having a bath purely functional, though I have heard of one film actress who seems to have made a career of it. For me at that time it was a major indulgence, too, after long deprivation. Lazing there, gazingly through the steam at the bright-painted ceiling and then at my pink body, now fleshy again - it was a matter of wonder to me that it could have ever recovered even a normal look after the skin-bone days - I was for the moment as content as any sybarite in a harem. After those steamy delights, there was the sight of the wards with crisp white linens sheets and bed covers. The grime, the mud, the dust, were behind me; gradually I began to recapture the memory of an antique purity.

During our first week in Canada most of us had received wonderful hospitality from the local people. We really had much to be thankful for. The door of the "Sweeneys", in Craig Flower Road not far from the camp, had been open at all hours to three of us. We were allowed to share the home comforts and eat at their table and in return talked about our service days and life in England before the war. The children of the household were a joy. Apart from that, they granted us the status of war heros and did much to boost our morale. They took us on little tours of the local beauty spots, and we bought them sweets and ices and took them to the cinema.

After some days in hospital I was allowed out most afternoons and evenings, and I usually found my footsteps leading to the Sweeneys. Even if they were out at work and the children were at school, I was allowed to go in. The door was always left open. They were grand friends to me, and I am glad to have had the opportunity here of thanking them again.

My hospital treatment went on. I was not an ideal patient, I fumed about missing the draft for home and was often bad tempered. I found the constant visits to the X-ray department tedious. Then I learned that the examinations revealed a "spot" near the heart. My first fear was that I was suffering from TB; several of my fellow prisoners had been admitted to hospital with that complaint. I was immensely relieved to hear from the M.O. that the spot indicated nothing more than a tired and worn heart caused by excessive P.O.W. labour. He assured me that it was nothing to worry unduly if I took things easy. Well I was taking things easy.

The weeks passed. Still no permission came from the medical authorities to continue my journey to England. Those of us who were not bed cases began to feel increasingly frustrated. We all had an urgent desire to pack and get moving. Christmas 1945 was not far ahead and I wanted to be back in Bradford by then. The wish became an obsession for all of us and we decided on action. Looking back, I am amazed at our boldness, but it was probably a fair measure of our desperation. What was the use of acting if we did not go to the highest authority? We asked ourselves. So we sent a cablegram to Winston Churchill. We felt the Prime Minister would be our saviour and that he, above all, could speed our departure. We urged him to arrange for our release from hospital at once. It was superb cheek of course. We had no wish to be disrespectful to the Canadians. Their kindness, and the hospital treatment, was such that we could never forget; but we had the feeling that since we had been sunk in the obscurity of P.O.W. life the authorities in Britain had possibly lost all track of us in their records. Whatever the truth, our cablegram seemed to do the trick. In a few days we were discharged from hospital. We packed up, said our goodbyes and went to Victoria harbour for the short journey to Vancouver. The Sweeney family were out in strength to see me off. I was sad to leave them, but my thoughts were of home as the steamer moved off.

After the steamer, the train. Our journey of four nights and five days on the Canadian Pacific Railway began. It was a glorious experience. As we climbed the steep gradients to the snow-covered Rockies, the scenery was breathtaking, and the vastness incredible. The train thundered on, leaving the snow behind, starting on the downward journey to the great plains, the wide expanse of wheaten gold. Isolated farmsteads stood out like sentinels as we flashed by. Many were scores of miles apart. It was something of a triumphant journey, too. The train stopped to re-fuel at the big towns, and somehow word got around who we were. The locals at every stop turned out to greet us, showering us with fruit, sweets and cigarettes. At Montreal an elderly, well dressed woman came up to me, talked sympathetically about the awful time we must have had, and of the severe rationing back home in Britain. Before leaving, she fished in her large handbag, pulled some pieces of paper out, ripped off two, and gave them to me. They were sugar coupons!

The attendants on the coaches gave us excellent dining room service and at the end of this part of our journey at Debert, another military hospital camp, lined up to give us three rousing cheers. This was an isolated camp, but there was a daily cinema show in the camp theatre provided by the Knights of St. Columbia. Here again, we seemed fated to be held up. The liner Queen Elizabeth, which we were to have boarded at Halifax, Nova Scotia, was being diverted to New York because of severe weather, we heard. Jinx or no jinx, we were not to be kept from home. We hurriedly called a meeting in one of the hospital wards. Our decision was a "whip round" to send cablegrams again - one to the Prime Minister and one this time to "The Daily Express". We were taking no chances. In both cablegrams we asked that every effort should be made to transfer us to New York in time to catch the liner. Again we were successful. We went back to Montreal by rail - and from there to New York, special coaches having been arranged at virtually a moments notice. For once, we were sampling the pleasure of what seemed limitless power to command. We travelled in luxury. I repeat luxury.