Commanding Officer were, "By the way, we're going to France next week, so any training you require will have to be done there - you'd better ask the quartermaster if he can fit you up with uniforms, and you'd better have three days' embarkation leave." The last remark was more to our liking. The quartermaster couldn't fit us up with uniforms, but within two hours we were back on the train heading north to our respective homes for leave. On walking into my parents' home in Manchester my father looked at me quizzically and said, "Can't you find your unit?" "I'm on leave," I replied. "My God," he said, "we've no chance this time."

On rejoining our unit a few days later we were obviously 'in the way', as everyone was busy preparing for the move to France. However, we were employed as casual labourers and cleaners. No attempt was made to give us any training except for a short period of foot-drill. We were unable to salute, as we had no uniform, so we were at least spared this never-ending rigmarole, as officers rushed about the area on seemingly useless errands.

At last the time came, and we entrained for Southampton. On arrival at the docks we were to immediately board a ferry for Cherbourg. As we (the civilian four) reached the gangway, a loud voice shouted, "Stop - where do you think you are going?" It was an Officer of the Military Police. After a short conversation with our sergeant it was made clear that we couldn't go to France unless in uniform. Our eyes lit up - we had been saved at the last moment. Not so - we were then taken to a shed on the docks which was filled with pieces of British Army uniforms of all descriptions, some of it dating back to World War I. We were told to select anything which fitted, and in no time at all we were 'properly dressed'. So I went to France in a tunic with brass buttons, puttees and a cavalry coat, all topped off with a cheesecutter hat. I was the reincarnation of Old Bill.