The skyscrapers were ahead. It was New York. We were pulling into the station on the banks of the Hudson; boarding the ferry to take us across the wide river. And then we saw her on the opposite bank - the gracious outline of the "Queen", towering in her berth above all other shipping, the quintessence of majesty. From her funnels came a wisp or two of smoke. She was a perfect picture against the background, the huge buildings, the blue-flecked sky. None of the dockside workers near her seemed to take any notice of the party of 200 British troops laden with kit. We did not mind. We came aboard the liner with the absolute minimum of formality. Two companions and myself were billeted in a large compartment amidships. We explored the labyrinth of passageways, made few inquiries, and found the liner was carrying more than 400 passengers. They included a number of servicemen going home from American duties, and a few American-born wives of British servicemen. The ship accustomed to carrying thousands of troops on a single trip, was almost deserted. Sailing orders were held up for several hours for the arrival of a British Government dignitary who had just completed some financial talks in Washington. He arrived late in the evening. Then the "Queen" pulled out into the river.

It was nearly midnight when I stood, huddled in my greatcoat, on the top deck of the liner as she moved past the Statue of Liberty. It was a moment of truth. I stood for a long time until the cold December air struck through to the bones. In bed, I gazed at the ceiling, my thoughts racing. I thought of the day long ago when I left home to start service life; embarkation leave; the trip to the Far East; but most of all the pleasure ahead. Soon I would be back in Yorkshire, back at my own fireside.

I was up again at 6:30a.m. It was still very cold, but invigorating. I stood on the deserted games deck, smoking a cigarette and staring out to sea. Every mile was a mile nearer home. Halfway across, the ship struck heavy seas and had to cut speed. Huge waves swept over her bows, but she ploughed on through the turbulence and into calmer waters under heavy skies. Southampton ahead. The sight of Britain's shores again after all the years left me speechless with joy and pride. The "Queen", helped to the landing stage by tugs, slid her huge bulk into her berthing place with astonishing ease and was quickly tied up. The gangway swung down. People were going ashore. I went for my kit and took my place in the queue. There were no Customs formalities. We boarded a train for a transit camp at Chalfont St John, receiving haversack rations before the train pulled out. At Chalfont there was the inevitable medical examination; there were more kit issues; and then we got pay and rail vouchers. We stayed at Chalfont one night.

After lunch the following day, loaded with kit that seemed mountainous, plus boxes and all, we went up to London by train. The previous night I had telephoned a friend in Bradford asking him to tell my wife I should be home some time late the following day. Our train pulled into London just after 5p.m. Trucks were there to take each man to his station across London for his final train journey. I threw my kitbags and other paraphernalia into one of them, tumbled in and we rattled off to Kings Cross. My train to Bradford was due to leave in three-quarters of an hour. I humped my kit towards a pub near the station. I ordered a pint of glorious dark English ale. It was the drink of the Gods to me. I had another to help me remember the taste. Then, loaded up with the kit again, I went to board my train for Bradford. The guard's whistle sounded and I was on my way. The last lap, 200 miles or so to go, and a week to the day before Christmas. It was nearly 11:30p.m. when the train puffed into the dreary, drab familiar Exchange Station at Bradford. I grabbed my kit, somehow got it harnessed around me, and stamped off down the platform. Twenty yards before I was there I saw my wife, brother, father-in-law and brother-in-law shouting and waving excitedly beyond the barrier. I hurried on, hurled my kit bags and a box over the barrier, thrust my ticket into the collector's hand, and dashed through into the waiting arms of my wife, kissing her wildly. My three male relatives picked up my kit and breathing heavily manhandled it to a taxi rank. "What have you got there? Lead weights?" asked my father-in-law. "It's as light as a feather" I said, grinning. "Ask the Japs". It was journey's end - on a crisp winter's evening a week before Christmas. I had travelled roughly 50,000 miles, gone round the world, miraculously endured all, and was home to tell the tale.