It was May 1941 when I reported, after call-up to the Colours, at Reservoir Camp, Gloucester, having been assigned to the R.A.O.C. I had six weeks intensive training in drill and the use of small arms weapons, followed by four weeks instructions in Ordnance procedure. I was not to know that this was a spell of bliss as an introduction to almost four years of hell.

Within a few days I found new friends. They, like me, found the new life strange for a time after leaving the family circle. I cannot say I am keen on soldiering; I am a man of peace. There was plenty to keep everyone occupied at Gloucester and the routine soon became familiar. It was a city full of serviceman - Army, Navy and RAF. I spent off-duty evenings there in the way that thousands of others did for lack of something better to do - at the cinema, or seeking out a public house or hotel open for the sale of beer. Beer in those days was scarce, but some licensed premises, if you managed to get there before 8 pm served a drink or two until 9 or 9.30 pm. Often the doors were locked about 8 pm. You were lucky if you were one of those on the inside looking out.

I had struck up a friendship with "Hockie", who came from Milford Haven. He was a fast talker and a first class darts player. Sometimes we managed to get into a club at weekend and his skill at darts, with my modest support, earned us rather more beer than we usually managed to get elsewhere. I make no apologies for dwelling on this simple pleasure. The time was to come when thoughts of those happy evenings among the free would bring an almost unbearable nostalgia.

We completed the training and examination period and on the camp noticeboard appeared details of the various openings at Ordnance units throughout the country as well as in Northern Ireland. "Hockie" and I had passed out as clerks, Grade III. We scanned the board expectantly, both hoping for a posting near home. The nearest to my home in Bradford was Altrincham in Cheshire. "Hockie" found nothing on his own doorstep. He decided to put his faith in my judgement and we joined the 18th Division Ordnance H.Q. at Altringham, only 40 miles or so from my home. That, I thought, was a perfect posting for me.

When we arrived at the new unit we heard that the division had been put on the alert for several months for overseas duties. Nor was that all. We were the two clerks required to make up the total strength. What "Hockie" said to me is unprintable.

As preparations to move went on there were long spells of duty for us to put in at H.Q., but I managed to sneak off to Bradford at lunchtime on Sundays, returning by early train the following day. That happy state of affairs lasted only six weeks. At the end of that time the division moved into Worcestershire and Warwickshire. Our headquarters were established in the drill hall at Stourport on the river Severn. The division reached its full strength in men and material, and in October we had embarkation leave.

When it was over I said goodbye to my wife and a large number of relatives on the station platform. I remembered being waved off as I leaned through the window of the doorway leading to the corridor of the coaches. The train rattled over a curve in the track, suddenly cutting off my view of them, and I leaned back with a feeling of utter loneliness. I stood in the corridor for ten minutes or so. The guard passed by, then came back, and asked if I was ill. I told him "No", moved into the coach with my baggage and found a seat as the train gathered speed through the night. I spoke to no other person on that trip to Birmingham; my thoughts were constantly with my wife and year old son. In the early hours the train pulled into Birmingham. I had a cup of tea in the all-night canteen, and went outside the station to wait for a G.P.O. van and scrounge a lift to Stockport. Those van drivers were always helpful and astonishingly cheerful. By the time I got back to camp I was feeling less morose.

The next thing that stands out vividly is the memory of an inspection of representatives of the Division by the King George VI at Hereford. I was among those detailed from the Ordnance section of headquarters to be on parade. I spent a lot of time blanco-ing, rubbing, brushing, scraping, cleaning and generally preparing for the great day. It turned out to be a magnificent occasion, well worth the trouble. My Army life was to provide no surfeit of shine and glitter and perhaps this is a contributory reason for my remembering this occasion with gratitude.

On arrival we paraded on an open space near the town's station. I remember the staccato orders, the rifles moving with precision in the faint November sun, the stamp of heavy boots glinting like black diamonds, bodies held stiff as ramrods, and long lines of men stretching out deep to right and left; then the air of stir and movement, and my first glimpse of the King, a slight figure in army uniform, resplendent with ribbons, hand on the hilt of a sword suspended from the waist belt. He went out of my sight as he continued the inspection and then I saw him again, through the corner of my eye, walking slowly up the middle rank. He was up to me now and I could see the blue of the eye, the slight colour in the hollowish cheeks, the smile flickering across his lips. Then he was gone, but I had seen the monarch of a Britain at war.

It is foolish to speculate on the thoughts that were passing through his mind on that November day, but if the eyes, seen in a fleeting moment, can be a pointer to feeling, he seemed to me to establish a silent understanding with us, a bond compounded of personal sympathy and pride. Neither he nor we could know what was to happen to many of us in the grim years to come. Many who were there that day were to have nameless graves in foreign soil. It was the first and last time I saw him, yet I was to remember the occasion, with its nostalgic British overtones in the heart of Hereford, more than once when overseas and again later when it seemed to give added significance to his letter marking the return of some of us from captivity. Soon after this, the division packed up and the units set off by rail, and road for Liverpool, the embarkation point. Most of the heavy equipment and stores had gone on ahead.

With some of the infantry units we boarded the former South American liner, Reino Del Parcifico. It was no consolation to learn that she was the ship on which the body of former Premier, Mr Ramsey McDonald, had been brought back to these shores.For a day or two we lay at anchor in the broad mouth of the Mersey. Ships of all sizes began to take up position there for the large convoy to cross the Atlantic.

"Hockie", myself and two others found ourselves allotted a cabin, comfortable but not behind its blacked-out porthole. The order was that the porthole must not opened on the voyage. There were heavy penalties for any infringement.

The convoy, supported by its naval escort, moved out and the orders began to pour in. One was that all personnel must wear their lifebelts at night. I endured one night of discomfort swathed in mine, found it intolerable and after that used it as an additional pillow. The Irish Sea was rough but when the convoy reached the Atlantic really high seas were running. For two days most Servicemen were seasick and had to stay in their bunks or hammocks. Forward, the mess deck and communal sleeping quarters - hammocks were lashed above the mess decks - were a foot deep in water. Gradually the seasickness wore off and on the third and fourth day of the eight-day journey most were up and about again, although rather groggy on their legs. I was fortunate, I discovered I was not a bad sailor and stood up to the pitching and rolling of the ship without any ill-effect. My immunity earned me extra work. I was detailed for a two-hour submarine watch every 12 hours from the upper deck. I carried that duty out until the voyage ended at Halifax, Nova Scotia. There were several submarine scares, but the convoy, changing course and taking a zig-zag route, was unmolested.

One wet and cloudy day I was on watch when I heard a shout and, peering over the side, I saw a head bobbing about in the water. It was quickly disappearing beyond the stern as someone threw a lifebelt, which fell too short to be of any use. I learned later that a sailor had fallen overboard from a convoy vessel and had been picked up by one of the destroyer escort. The news brought me a sense of relief. It was my first experience of trouble at sea, and I remember the sickening feeling of helplessness I had as another man vanished from sight in those formidable green waters. I learned that four sailors clinging to a raft had also been picked up by the destroyer. They had been sunk in a submarine attack two days before being rescued. Lucky men.The voyage went on. To pass the time we played cards, sang and read in our small cabin.

For the first few hundred miles out into the Atlantic the convoy was guarded by several battered-looking destroyers, the four funnelled America type which came Britain's way on Lease-Lend. The Americans, not yet in the war, were doing convoy duty to certain rendezvous points on the outward trip from the States and then returning with the outward- bound convoy. It was reassuring to see the size of the American escort when our convoy made contact with another large convoy making its way to towards Britain. Aircraft zoomed from the deck of the carriers on daylight protection duties. Their pilots flew in close, with a friendly wave of the hand to the servicemen lining the ship's rails. That was always a welcome sight to us - and, though we did not know it, in earnest of things to come.