My life changed drastically on Friday 1st September 1939. The British ultimatum had been delivered to Hitler, and he had 48 hours to comply. Nobody expected that he would, and preparation for war was going apace. We had all said our goodbyes at home that morning before we set off for school. Now imagine a long line of boys, all in uniform, the youngest aged 11 and the oldest 17. I was 12 and a second former. The crocodile was making its way along Kennington Oval towards Vauxhall railway station. Masters and prefects were acting as controllers, and the whole event was orderly and sober, and there were no weeping mums waving goodbye to a disappearing train, often used on the media today.

Where are we going? Nobody knew, or if they did, they were not saying. Each boy had a few prescribed personal belongings in a small haversack, marked in indelible ink with the code ‘H30’, the school’s identity number. The obligatory gas mask in its cardboard box was the only other item of luggage. Like thousands of other London children, we were leaving to be safe from the expected air raids.

A Southern Electric train pulled into Vauxhall station. We heard the order “get in”. Soon the train was on its way to Clapham Junction. We got out after a few minutes of sorting out the original groups, we moved on to a different platform. Another train came in, and everyone was quickly aboard. After a number of stops, the order “All out here” was heard, and we reassembled in the station yard. “Wokingham? Anybody know where this is?” Certainly, among the younger boys, nobody had the faintest idea, although we discovered fairly quickly that we were only a few miles from Reading.

A fleet of buses was lined up in the station yard and we all got in. Group by group, boys got off under the direction of a master. When our turn came to get off, it was at the top of a long straight road – Reading Road, Woodley.

We walked down the road and, mostly in pairs, were sent into allocated houses. The group got smaller until there was only one bungalow left on the list, but there were still two boys (me and a boy named Alan) and two masters with their wives. The elderly couple took us all in. The masters and their wives got the two available bedrooms, and we boys got the lounge floor. Two weeks passed before we were moved two doors up the road to another house, to a home with a young couple and their little boy.

The first thing we were told to do after finally arriving at this unknown place was to send a pre-stamped postcard to our parents, giving them our address. Mine went something like this: ‘Dear Mum and Dad. I am OK. Please send me a postal order, because I shall need a bit more money. Love, David.’

We had plenty of spare time during this school year, because the only place that could be found for us to receive lessons was the local school, Woodley Senior School. The local children used the buildings from 9am to 1pm, and we used them from 1pm to 5pm.

Looking back, I realise how hard our headmaster must have been working to get some reasonable facilities for us. We were finally told that the next September (1940) we would be moving to South Lake House, a large house set in a private park in Earley. The house and lake were surrounded by land enclosed by a high fence to provide a sanctuary for water birds.