In the last article I wrote of the Bonfire night celebrations which took place on the ground between our row of Nissen huts and the 'black huts' above them.

This brought back memories of my first football injury. The bigger boys used this same piece of land to play football and although I had been told not to, and the players made it obvious I was a nuisance, I decided I would join in anyway.

It was not long before (and I'm sure it was accidental) Henry Trenchard lashed the ball towards the goal with me in the direct line of fire. Unfortunately, it knocked me senseless and I was still unconscious as they carried me to our hut.

They explained to my mother what had occurred and I think everyone was quite worried until I eventually regained consciousness.

The first athletic meeting ever on The Camp

Another memory this same plot of land evokes is the running races Ron Perry organised. Ron was the eldest son of the Perry family who lived in one of the 'black huts'. He was a great keep fit exponent and runner. He would often be seen running in his singlet and shorts on the roads around The Camp long before "jogging" was ever heard of.

Ron decided to organise an athletics meeting and made the details known far and wide. An oval running track lined with flags was set out on the grassy area between the two rows of huts together with an elaborate finishing line between two poles he'd cut from the copse.

These were decorated with more flags and a banner stretched between them. On the Saturday he'd chosen for the event a large crowd gathered to witness the proceedings. The races were of various distances in which competitors paid a fee to enter. The winner of each race was rewarded with a cash prize which was a percentage of the entry fee. I don't believe it was legal but it didn't stop people taking part. Ron had probably come up with the idea as a way of making some money as, not only did he keep the money from the entry fees, but also won most of the races himself. Another example of The Camp's ever-present spirit of independent enterprise.

Axminster Station Yard

I wrote previously of my father returning to work again as a storeman with Dorset Farmers after he left the Army. Their Depot, together with Bradfords and Luffs, was situated alongside a branch line from Axminster station's shunting yard and ran past the current Mole Avon building and terminated at Tesco's filling station.

In the post war years railways provided the most popular, and sometimes the only means, of transporting bulk products around the country. Every wagon arriving at the rear doors of Dorset Farmers Store would contain 12 tons of cattle feeds, sugar beet, basic slag or fertiliser packed in 1cwt (50kg) bags, a total of 240 bags which had to be man-handled from each enclosed wagon and stacked in various sections of the store which my father appeared to do with consumate ease.

I suppose these standard 1cwt bags were no problem to him as at other times he had to lift, carry and stack West of England hessian sacks full of corn each one weighing 2.25 cwts (115kgs). As I have written before, his slight build disguised his phenomenal strength (and determination).

If my father had any spare time he was never idle. He went odd jobbing, haymaking, rabbiting (more stories later), tended his large garden. Anything to ensure the rent was paid, we had food on the table, clothes on our back, shoes on our feet and never went without a present for our birthday or Christmas. Debt was an anathema to him, if we couldn't pay for it, then we didn`t have it.

Unaccompanied travel on the train

Our residence of the Nissen hut lasted less than 12 months but was quite an initiation into life on The Camp and set me up for our next move which came quite unexpectedly.

My other, Molly and myself travelled to Wellington for the Easter holiday of 1948 to stay with Granny and Grandad Tudor.

I am sure mum must have really enjoyed returning to her old home to see her family and friends again, especially to tell them she was expecting a new arrival, though we children had no knowledge of it whatsoever.

Our journey to Wellington began on a Southern National double decker bus from from Axminster to Taunton. Then a train from Taunton to Shrewsbury where we had to change trains for the final leg to Wellington, in total a journey time of between six to seven hours which to a young boy seemed interminably long. (At that time I didnt know that our next mode of transport would take even longer.)

One highlight I did enjoy was the echoing rattle of the train passing through the Severn Tunnel. The wail of the whistle as we entered its portal, pitch black for some four and a half miles, going from brightest day into darkest night in the blink of an eye. The drop in temperature, the smell of steam and damp soot that pervaded the carriages. Even more so if someone had left a window open. All these experiences bring back the memories of bygone rail journeys even now.

It was a train journey I was to make many more times in the next few years. Initially as a seven year old, with case and sandwiches, my mother would accompany me on the bus as far as Taunton station. Then she would find the guard on the train and ask him to keep an eye on me during the journey to Shrewsbury.

Once or twice I actually rode all the way in the guard's van, (that was quite an adventure for a young boy to talk about.) I have to say at no time did I ever feel nervous or concerned, only happy to envisage meeting friends I had not seen for several months. When I reached Shrewsbury one of our relatives would meet me for the final train journey and my much anticipated first glimpse of the Wrekin. How different things were then. Just think of the uproar now if a seven-year-old child was found to be travelling on a train alone!

Going back to our return from the Easter trip to Wellington, dad was actually at the bus stop on Chard Road to meet us. This was unusual as normally he would be far too busy. It was even more so when we entered the main gate (1st Avenue) and instead of forking left in the direction of our Nissen hut he carried straight on and stopped at a building which stood on the spot Millwey shops now occupy. It was our first sight of 14/1, which was about to become our next home on The Camp, a building that had once housed the administration centre of the recently vacated US Army Hospital.

Next time: The conversion of offices into a home, DIY style.