We had moved into our Nissen hut as squatters in early 1947 and joined many others who had already made their home on the Camp.

One of the residents, Suzanne, will always remain imprinted on mine and many other people's memory. I think she was of French origin with a rudimentary grasp of the English language. She dressed in long khaki shorts, Wellington boots, army blouson and always a coloured bandana on her head.

Unfortunately for all the families that lived in our complex of Nissen huts, the path that connected us with the rest of the Camp cut through a grassy tract of land she seemed to think was her domain and we became the butt of her wrath.

She had taken possession of a Nissen hut under the hedge adjacent to the original Heal's Field and seemed to think that all the ground adjoining it belonged to her as well.

She erected ramshackle shelters and fences around the hut for her collection of goats, geese and hens but her pastures didn't stop there, First thing in the morning she would chain her goats up for the day on any available strip of grass around the Camp, then later in the afternoon she would lead them home on the same chains for milking.

Guiltily I have to say, the tethered goats provided great sport for us youngsters. Having estimated exactly how far their chains would reach, we would tease them always making sure we were out of reach when they chased us, although Suzanne seemed to have a built-in alarm and would suddenly turn up without warning berating us as we ran away.

Attacked by geese

My first recollection of her and the existence of her livestock came courtesy of her geese that attacked me everytime I walked along our path that cut through the grassy area close to her hut. As soon as I was within their vicinity they would waddle towards me flapping their wings, hissing and honking.

After a while I found if I threw stones or carried a stick they were more reticent in their endeavours. This often led to Suzanne running from her Nissen hut waving her arms and yelling in her very accented voice "Stop zat Zpeeller, (she could never work out why I was called Sturch) I vill call zee police. I vill tell yer Mudder" but by then I was always far away. She always called me "Zpeeler"; she never did understand why I was Sturch and my family were called Spiller.

From our Nissen hut to Axminster Primary School was around a mile once we were past the threat of those fearsome geese. The journey on foot took my sister Molly and me 20 to 25 minutes but there was always other kids to walk with on the way.

I can remember the early days at my previous school in Wellington being rather tearful. This time though it didn't take me long to settle in, especially as Miss Hatchley`s reception class had an indoor sandpit which was raised up on legs and was great fun to play in.

I can remember the bell ringing at 9am and lining up outside our respective classrooms and replying "here" when your name was read out for the daily register. The sing-song chant of our voices when we learnt the alphabet and times-tables by rote and also the afternoon stories that I enjoyed so much. I really did relish going to school in those early days.

My father returned to Dorset Farmers in Axminster Station Yard where he had been employed as storeman/driver before the war. He worked a five-and-a-half day week, 8am to 5.30pm weekdays and 8am to 12.30pm on Saturdays. He received no overtime for any extra hours worked and by today's standards his pay was a pittance.

Boxed for the Regiment

Like many others he cycled to work and I will always recall him leaving at precisely ten minutes to eight every morning as '"Lift up your Hearts" (the BBC's daily religious interlude) began. He always irreverently referred to it as 'pull up your socks' but it was always his cue to leave for work.

He was very much like his mother (Granny Hoare), short and wiry, but with phenomenal strength for his size. In the Army he had been a PT instructor. He boxed for the Regiment as a flyweight and while doing so managed to get his nose broken which left him without a sense of smell. This was probably a blessing in disguise as he delighted in smoking 'Digger Shag' roll-ups which to me smelt quite awful.

I remember him once catching Molly and myself pretending we were smoking. We had rolled up paper tubes made from a Tate & Lyle sugar bag (they would actually smoulder similar to a cigarette.) Instead of punishing us with the usual slap on the legs, he made two roll-ups of 'Digger Shag' for us to smoke. After a few puffs I was violently ill while Molly smoked hers with no ill-effects whatsoever. A few years later though we both became seasoned cigarette smokers as was the way during that era.

Two other issues left over from his Army life which caused him some discomfort were very painful, tender feet, which he always blamed on ill-fitting Army boots, and also a tubercular disease which sometimes caused breathlessness and an irritating cough, although I always thought the 'Digger Shag' roll ups he smoked for many years had no small part to play in the problem.

As Guy Fawkes night now approaches it brings back memories of neighbours' co-operating to build a giant bonfire on the strip of land between our row of Nissen huts and the 'black huts'.

An unforgettable night

Looking back, it seemed most of the Camp inhabitants came to celebrate and look-on as those who could afford fireworks set them off. For me it was an unimaginable and unforgettable night. Although I was quite young, I do remember Edgar Rendell insisting the guy had a vital body part missing and attached a length of bicycle inner tube to everyones amusement.

After all the fireworks finished most people gathered around the fire; adults chatting, kids playing as we waited for the flames to die down. Potatoes were then placed in the glowing embers and we feasted on the resulting baked potatoes - a night for a tired youngster to remember and recall forever, although one resident who didn't partake in the night's activities was Suzanne. I hate to think what she thought of our rowdy celebration.

In my next reminisce, our move from the Nissen hut to a 'converted dwelling'.