However, he didn't actually forbid me, so at the earliest opportunity I sneaked off on my bike to the recruitment centre (actually Johnson's builders yard).

Then began my first manoeuvre, which meant wobbling the two miles home, my bike festooned wit the accoutrements of war. Now you will doubtless have encountered that hackneyed description "The plan worked with all the precision of a well-oiled machine". Well, the only well-oiled thing about my plan was the bike chain, which came off, locking the back wheel.

Fortunately I had by then reached the bottom of the hill and the green opposite my house, whereupon I performed an inelegant somersault over the handlebars amid a cascade of khaki and a .303 fifle which rapped me smartly across the head as it also descended.

"Hope it knocked some sense into you", said my father, who, sch being the nature of things, happened to be in the front garden at the time.

Bunny Baxter's house commanded an all-embracing view over the valley, so inexplicably suffused with an influx of strategic acumen, we decided to mount the Spigot Mortar on this lawn.

Ourselves, together with the rest of the platoon who were positioned so cunningly that eve they probably didn't know where they were, had to defend the approaches to a designated area against infiltration by another lot who just happened to come from Copton Heath, and whose rivalry - if not downright hostility - in the pre-war soccer days was legendary.

It began when the teams met in the final of the then highly coveted Tollington League Cup, when a shot as the Copton goal was somehow directed into the net by a spectator standing near the goal post. The unsighted referee awarded a goal, pandemonium ensued, and the miscreant slipped quietly away. The official remained adamant, Bramley won the cup, and the incident became a regularly resurrected topic in the bar-parlour for years.

Anyway, to get back to the Spigot Mortar. There we all were, Charlie Cant, the gamekeeper, Alec Burns, the cobbler, and myself, crouched behind this weird looking contraption and wondering what on earth we would do if someone was daft enough to order us to fire it, when from nowhere appeared an individual sporting a peaked cap, an armband and a cultivated voice.

"Who's in chage of this gun?" he announced peremptorily.
"Why Charlie, of course," replied Alec in his best North Essex accent.

This seemed to satisfy the inquisitor who vanished from whence he came.

"What did you want to tell he that I was in charge of teh gun for?" Charlie indignantly inquired of Alec.
"Well, you'd got the bloody book, hadnt you?" was the succinct and very military orientated retort.

As a gamekeeper Charlie Cant was a zealous gardian of Lord Astley's estate, and on one occasion when doing his rounds he came across a couple in a compromising position (those weren't exactly Charlie's words) in Bullock's Wood.

"I didn't disturb he when he was a-doin' his duty", he said when recounting the incident, "but when he'd finished I said to he: How did you get in here, then?"
"Over that barbed wire, he says.
"Well, says I, you'd better git back over that barbarous wire afore I change me mind".

Charlie, however, didn't like to be reminded of the time when as a young employee he was plied with mangel wine by the Nayler brothers when in a shoot and had to be bundled into the nearest ditch and covered with leaves before the toffs spotted him.

How the Nayler brothers made a living was an unfailing source of conjecture in the village, for they appeared to spend the best part of their time brewing a diabolical assortment of wines.

For the benefit of those who have never partaken of that insidious beverage known as home made wine, and who accordingly still possess a stomach lining, it will be necessary to explain that beneath its initial benignity there lurks a delayed action comparable only to being clouted over the head with one of those ring-the-bell fairground mallets wielded by a sixteen-stone Irish navvy.

Consequently man an unsuspecting victim starting quite soberly on the way home after accepting the hospitality of the Nayler brothers found himself "arse-over-head" (to use a local colloquialism) in a ditch with his bike on top of him.

It was indeed the Nayler brothers who were responsible for the three-day absence of Buffy Howell's pony. But let Pte Reuben Mead, who was present, take up the tale.

"I mind the time when they got owd Buffy's pony drunk. Gave it a pail of rhubarb wine, they did, and you should've seen that owd pony sup that inter it. But when that went to walk away - well, I ain't seen nothin' like it. That fell down an' that whinnied, then that got up and whinnied again, then that went across that there Heath like greased lightning. I thought Charlie Nayler was goin' to bust a gut a-laughin'.

We found out later why we had failed the exercise. Someone had conceived the idiotic idea of positioning Buffy Howell, ex-army bandsman and inveterate tippler, hard by headquarters (namely the Hare & Hounds) in his pony and trap, the height of which it was ludicrously calculated would enable him to perceive the advancing hordes, sound the view halloo on his bugle, then gallop off to alert the next position.

Inevitably Buffy slipped into "headquarters" for rather more than a quick one, and on returning to his position found that some ingenious "enemy" prankster had unharnessed the pony, pushed the shafts of the trap through an adjacent five-bar gate, then re-harnessed the animal on the other side.

By then headquarters had fallen; where in the fullness of time the individual with the peaked cap, arm band and cultivated voice, found both victors and vanquished in various stages of incoherent inebriation. The official despatch was understandably laconic "because of failure: dereliction of observance duty allowed infiltration at a vital position. Headquarters occupied."

At this juncture it might perhaps be considered superfluous to mention that no one heard Bert Offord, landlord of the Hare and Hounds, complain about being occupied!

Sgt. Simmonds, one time N.C.O. in the regular army had not, strangely enough, commented on the failure of the exercise. Now he strutted back and forth in front of the platoon with all the verve of a man rescued from the anonymity of civilian life and restored to a position of authority.

"I'm going to tell you a little story", he began in a deceptively benign voice.
"Once upon a time I had some tin soldiers. I took these soldiers to school with me, but Johnie Brown, the school bully, stole them from me. So I went home and I said to my father "Dad, Johnie Brown has stolen my tin soldiers! And do you know what he said to me?"
Sgt. Simmonds paused with all the aplomb of a Shakespearean actor.
"He said", and his voice began to rise, "He said, never mind son. You'll get 'em back one day. And by the centre! I have."

Came the time when men were being conscripted into the Home Guard, and some of the farm workers got roped in, one of whom was rather less than enthusiastic. Johnie Sparrow was a cowman, and what with all the animal maintenance that this entailed, together with herding and milking twice a day he was of the opinion that he could well do without this playing at soldiers, as he described our antics.

The day of a much anticipated mass parade dawned. Together with other platoons from adjacent areas we were to be inspected by Brig. Gen. Risely-Smith at Johnson's yard. An aura of rivalry was in the air; brasses burnished as never before, boots spit and polished, even the webbing benefited from a long overdue application of Blanco.

The great man was doing full justice to the occasion, exchanging genial words with youngsters and be-ribboned veterans alike, when he stopped suddenly, incredulity and outrage vying for expresssion on his face. Turning to Cpt. Johnson, he hissed:
"What the devil is that man doing on parade without his uniform?"

Iron discipline forgotten, necks craned; and there in flagrant disregard of the military establishment stood Johnie Sparrow, complete with greasy milking cap, blue turtle-necked jersey, brown smock, ragged trousers and Wellingtons; the whole liberally be-spattered with cow muck. It was only to be wondered at that he had'nt sought to enhance the ensemble with a pitch fork.

He was bundled out of sight by St=gt. Simmonds and the whole affair smoothed over, the excuse being pressure of work and a laudable desire not to miss the parade.

Brig. Gen. Risely-Smith, being a landowner he must have been aware of the complications that could arise when working with animals, but one wonders whether he would have appreciated the old proverb which seemed appropriate at the time: "All is not butter that comes from the cow."

Johnson's yard was where we had our outside parades, but lack of inside space meant that we had to use two other places for lectures, etc. One of these was a large room behind the butchers shop once used for the slaughter of animals. (Slaughter being the disconcertingly operative word, considering the state of the war at the tie.)

Outside was a high brick wall, against which the gigantic Cpl. Ted Wiffen, the butcher, was wont to urinate. On one occasion when he was relieving himself a small boy nearby piped:
"Mr Wiffen, I sawy your Willie"
"Did you boy", replied Ted, thrusting his hand into a pocket, "here's a tanner, I ain't seen it myself for years".
The other venue for our inside activities was the village hall, which evoked memories of a never-to-be-forgotten episode in the life of Pte Reg. Thorn .

As a prologue to this it must be recorded that the boys of the village were much given to hanging around the hall when events to which they were excluded were taking place, and that the toilet facilities in the hall were, to put it charitably, primitive, operating as they did on what the caretaker grumblingly described as "the tread it down system".

This consisted of a holed wooden seat with a long very artistically shaped galvanised bucket underneath (colloquially referred to as a "privy pail"), a receptical containing earth, a shove,, and - if you were lucky - some toilet paper. Note this was indeed a luxury, and perhaps my memory is playing tricks, for most people used newspaper or magazines, the print didn't come off like it does today !

However what appealed to the mischievous minds of the local pranksters was the small hinged-door at the back which could be opened to facilitate the emptying of the bucket. Those of you who were country boys during that era will already be ahead of this narrative, so suffice it to observe that some villages were the recipients of nettle stings in some very embarrassing places.

P.C. Meadows was alerted and lay in wait. At the back of the hall were the allotments, and it was to these that the miscreants, including Reg Thorn, fled with the policeman in close pursuit.

Reg thought he could run, but surprisingly, so could P.C. Meadows. Realising that he was being overtaken Reg tried diversionary tactics over unfamiliar territory, whereupon he sprawled into one of the middens (or "muck dungles", as they were known locally) containing the contents of the previously mentioned "tread it down systems" which the allotment holders used to produce the succulent vegetables and sweet smelling blooms later to be admired at the village flower show.

Sweet smelling was most certainly not the sentiment that sprang to the mind of P.C. Meadows as he surveyed his captive from a judicious distance. Convinced that the punishment, which was only just beginning, he reflected, knowing Reg's father, had outweighed the crime, he said.
"I think you have had enough for this evening, Thorn", a remark which was unhesitatingly endorsed by the nettle brandisher as he slunk home to the inevitable parental interrogation.

L/Cpl. Wesley Blandford was a naive but likable Chapel goer, who being the owner of a motor-bike and side-car, was soon inveigled into the appointment of despatch rider and Bren gun carrier. It was on one of these sorties that wesley, who had a weak chest, was persuaded to partake of some of the Nayler brothers' Elderberry wine, which they assured him was purely medicinal.

What happened next must have exceeded the Nayler brothers wildest expectations, for Wesley, astride his motor-bike and side-car - complete with Bren gun - finished up in the duck pond at Shadbolt Green giving a stentorian rendering of that old Chapel favourite "Pull for the shore sailor, Pull for the shore".

"To shoot at a pidgeon and hit a crow" is an old rural saying which could justifiably be applied to our affectionately remembered Home Guard platoon.

I recall the disruption cased when Pte. "Banger" Morris, an ex-army Sapper, was practicing his questionable expertise on a recalcitrant tree stump and blew out farmer Bird's windows, and the inconceivable shambles perpetrated by Pte. "Noddy" Bond, six-feet-four of uncoordinated gawkiness, who misdirected a Molotov Cocktail and set fire to Johnson's timber store. To these add the catalogue of cock-ups previously recorded and it would be difficult to select the most indelible memory.

For me it was the occasion when my father got conscripted. We "old hands" had fallen in, and to my dying day I shall never forget the expression on his face when, resplendent with campaign ribbons, he had to respond to the command:
"Now, fall in the recruits".

List of Owen Ellis papers