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streets of London, signing
on and looking, unsuccessfully, for a job, when I received yet
another letter from the Admiralty, this time telling me that I
would be sent for training, probably at Drem in Scotland,
which was an RAF flying training school at the time. When I
read it, I made up my mind that I would now go home to
Scotland, face my father and wait for further instructions
about training. My return in August didn't go too badly – my
letter from the Admiralty was proof that at least my life had
some direction.
    It was in Kelso on 1 September that I heard on the news
that the Germans had invaded Poland, and I knew that war
was inevitable. My father and mother and I were gathered
round the wireless set on the 3rd, which was a Sunday, to hear
the Prime Minister announce that once again we were at war
with Germany. It was a profound moment, where every
person listening knows that their life will be utterly transformed,
for ever, and there will be great changes in the world
and that the future has suddenly become completely
unknown. I knew that I would be part of the war, and that the
question of what to do with my life was probably no longer
in my hands. My parents must have felt a great deal of unease,
but they kept it to themselves. My father in particular, with
his experience of Gallipoli, must have had his own thoughts,
but he had never discussed them before and didn't do so now.
    It was clear that I would probably be starting my training
in the navy much sooner than expected, and indeed almost
the next day I received another letter from the Admiralty. In
contradiction to the last one, it contained orders and a travel
warrant for me to take the train south to Gosport, west of
Portsmouth harbour, and to appearatSt Vincent barracks,
which was the Royal Navy boys' training establishment. Once
more I said goodbye to my parents and old schoolfriends to
catch the train to Edinburgh and then south. I felt that I had
been kicked from pillar to post in the past months, but was
sure that now all that was behind me.

3
Up, Up and Away
    Unlike on my previous visit to Portsmouth, my destination
was not a warship. HMS St Vincent was what was known in
the navy as a 'stone frigate', a shore-based establishment of
bricks and mortar. In fact, St Vincent was a collection of four-storey
red-brick buildings facing a large asphalt parade
ground. It was not very inviting. After finding my way there
via the Gosport Ferry, I stood outside the entrance for quite a
while, wondering what I had let myself in for. Things were a
bit different from my last visit to the training ship HMS Frobisher. We were at war, and I was in the navy for the duration.
I knew that once I entered the base through the arches
there would be no going back. It seems strange, but after all
the trials and tribulations of being accepted into the navy, I
now could not bring myself to take the final step, so I delayed
and delayed. Then another chap approached and stood next to
me. He too was carrying a small suitcase. 'Are you going in?'
he said in a Welsh accent, looking at me. I confirmed that I was.
His name was Glan Evans and he came from Swansea. He too
was filled with doubts and we both stood, silently, for another
moment. At last, almost in unison, a Scot and a Welshman
crossed the portal into St Vincent. From that moment we
shared a great fellow feeling, and he remained the best friend
a man could ever have. He was also a terrific scrum half.
    Our fears were groundless. St Vincent was a boy sailors'
training establishment, but when war was declared the young
lads, who were about fourteen or fifteen years of age, were
evacuated to the Isle of Man, out of range, it was hoped, of
German bombers. Such was the fear of bombing that in the
two months leading up to the outbreak of war, a programme
of evacuating youngchildren from the big cities had been put
in motion, and eventually around two and a half million were
taken from their families and sent to stay with strangers