from which poured a stream of soldiers grabbing at the lorry contents. In the very twinkling of an eye they had erected the poles of a large marquee and the canvas followed, followed again by armfuls of equipment, iron bedsteads, chairs and great cartons of supplies we could obviously not identify. A smaller tent was erected just adjacent to the big one, the kitchen perhaps, and within a couple of hours I found myself summoned into this hospital miraculously built on a greenfield site as quickly as I had ever seen anything done. I was put to bed – between sheets! What a real pleasure that was! There were young American nurses, pretty girls in their army uniforms, anxious to feed and water us. The bread, after weeks of that ghastly German stuff, almost floated away as you picked it up. The food was excellent, and there was chocolate to boot but it all spoiled one thing for me – all those plans for a wonderful meal of tomato soup, roast pork and bread and butter pudding fast became completely irrelevant. Otherwise it was restful, warm and pleasant and the next few days were welcome after the weeks of discomfort and short rations. I managed to write that postcard to Margaret on the very first day there, although I was home before it reached her. I still have it, and it is addressed from 130 Evacuation Hospital, Det of Patients, APO 103, c/o US Army. It was on May 7th that news came over the air that the Germans had surrendered and that hostilities were to end at midnight on the following day. And it was on May 8th, VE Day itself, that I clambered with 26 others into a good old Dakota awaiting us on a hastily organised airfield not far from the hospital and flew back over occupied Germany, France and the Channel to the shores of England, sore throat completely cured, well-fed and very happy indeed. We landed at RAF Lyneham in Wiltshire just near Swindon and stepped down on to British soil with heartfelt thanks to the good Lord and everyone else. Whoever it was I reported to at Lyneham told me I would have to travel to Cosford in the Midlands to be deloused before being allowed to go home. I protested vigorously, first because I was not lice-ridden and secondly because I was intent on getting to my family, still at Whitehouse Road in Oxford, with no delay. There was reluctant agreement and, after munching a bun and swallowing a cup of tea provided by a group of nuns who were kindly looking after returned prisoners at Lyneham, I took my railway warrant to Swindon station by courtesy of some local transport and caught the first train going to Oxford. I walked from the station, when we got there, still in my now shabby battledress and minus headgear. I was still wearing the heavy brown GI boots I had acquired at Wetzlar and must have been a scruffy example of an RAF officer. I hurried down St Aldate’s and over Folly Bridge, anxious to surprise the family and assure them that I was indeed still alive and well when, just south of the bridge, I passed a young lady whom I knew slightly as coming from the shop at the corner of Whitehouse Road and Abingdon Road. I gave her a little smile as I went by, presumably unrecognised; but as I turned the corner into


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