Declaration of War, after all the anxieties of the previous few years, seemed to come almost as an anti-climax. At least we knew what was in store - or thought we did. In retrospect, some pretty silly things were done to confuse the enemy. Destinations were concealed by the removal of road signs and destination boards on buses and trains. Warning posters were put up. Gas masks and stirrup pumps were issued. Buildings were blacked out. I recall being the only one daft enough to climb to the top of a triple extension ladder inside Trinity Baptist Chapel and to pin bitumised brown paper over the highest windows there. Several years later the blackout paper was still in position; it was probably there until the building was demolished in 1984.

My father's world seemed to fall apart with the declaration of War. For a short time he busied himself on providing blackouts and other items for the Government buildings - he was one of the MOW approved contractors - but he had lost heart. One day he came home and announced that he had asked his Accountants to sell him out. That was of course a complete folly; who on earth would want to invest in a building firm at the beginning of a War? But the Accountants did as he asked - and the only takers were good old Milton Riley and a joiner called Billy Waring. They got a modernised joinery workshop - the firm had moved out of Colne Lane a little earlier - and Dad became a Clerk of Works engaged on factory construction. My sense of guilt gnawed inside me. Arnold had left the firm, and was married; my two elder sisters were married and lived in Burnley; younger sister Winifred was home, looking after my sick mother. If only I could have seen into the future .... if only I had stayed with Dad .... nobody knew the torment of conscience I inflicted on myself. The only consolation available to me was the knowledge that I had a well-paid job, and just about that time Jack Beckett got me a promotion. So at least the family finances were safe. I threw myself into my swotting and work with a new sense of purpose - I must have been insufferable to live with in those early War days.

At work the Civil Defence activity increased. In fact it was for all practical purposes the only activity. We filled thousands of jute sacks with sand and erected sandbag screen walls at the entrances to public buildings. We erected four inch by three inch steel joists and three inch steel props beneath the ground floors of many shops and offices. The streets were obstructed by massive brick and concrete communal shelters. And we manned the new claustrophobic airless control centre. I spent many sleepless and dehydrating nights with Jack Beckett and members of the Drawing Office staff, doing shifts of standby duty. The Boss included himself in the roster - that was Jack Beckett. It was during these night shifts that I discovered his skill and flair as a Bridge player. We were virtually instructed by him in the game, and it passed the time.

Evacuation of school children was introduced, and it seemed at times to be two-way, but in essence the plan appeared to be the removal of children from London and the big cities to the small towns and villages. In the meantime Hitler was spreading his troops over Europe, but it all seemed rather remote, even unreal. Germany had its Siegfried Line, France her Maginot Line, and we had the English Channel. That was the period which came to be known as the "phoney War". Friends in the Territorial Army went into uniform.

Our gang broke up; we had outgrown the gang outlook, and several members had gone away to college or University or work. Very few of the boys linked up with the girls, but found girlfriends elsewhere. In the gang we were all the same age - all War Babies, as we were called. When we left our 'teens the spread of our interests took us out of the cosy, safe gang cocoon, and there were younger girls - or older boys - to interest us. To a teenager an age difference of as little as two years seems enormous, but after 21 a few years' difference goes unnoticed. In my case there was a difference of 7 years between me and my girl. She'd been at the Baptists all the time, and she could dance, act, sing, play tennis, play the piano, and look decorative.

Looking back now to those days of the phoney War, it all seems to have been unreal, a sort of haze of living, a blur of meaningless activity. How unreal it really was became manifest in May 1940 when the phoney war exploded into the terrible real thing. We had the German advance across Europe turning into a rout, the out-flanking of the Allied armies by swift-moving German forces in the Blitzkrieg, the nonsense of the Maginot Line - and the cutting off of the British troops, a whole army hopelessly out-manoeuvred and apparently lost. Miraculously they straggled back to the Dunkirk beaches, and incredibly they were saved by a motley collection of small boats which sailed with their civilian owners or skippers from the seaside towns of England, constantly under attack from the air, a flotilla of civilians saving an army against all the odds. It is not for me to chronicle that historic evacuation story, but I can vouch for the effect it had on the stay-at-homes of my generation. This was the reality of War at last; fear for the future, immense pride in the success of the evacuation, and above all the realisation that there was life itself at stake. And Britain was able to produce the man for the task, just as happened in the First War. Then, a smalltown Welsh lawyer named David Lloyd George was at hand. Now, an old war horse of mixed political fortunes took over from Chamberlain in May 1940, and he threw defiance at Hitler - for our benefit. Winston Churchill was the man in the hour of need. He was the man whose brave words stirred my generation, so that factory workers took up the challenge to replace the weapons and war paraphernalia lost in France, aircraft production soared, and suddenly there seemed a purpose to life.

Or there should have been. I was messing about with Civil Defence, playing at War, secure in my Reserved Occupation whilst friends were in the Forces. I went to London and sat exams, with special instructions to cater for air raids. The War Room was being constructed in the basement of a building just across the road from the place where the exams were held - of course nobody knew that it was the War Room, but we know now. Then, in one deadly, historic and heroic eruption over London, came the Battle of Britain in August 1940. Churchill's words of defiance again - stirring stuff. I had an exam in the Autumn of 1940, and by that time the Londoners were so blasé that we were instructed to carry on if the air raid siren started - and to evacuate the exam room and follow the invigilator to the basement only if he blew a whistle. I rang home that night during an air raid, and I had to sit under a Morrison Shelter with the phone. The Morrison Shelter was a heavily built steel table which occupied a considerable part of the room.

During those months I had determined to get into something more meaningful to me than Air Raid Precautions, but whilst some of my office colleagues were picked up by the Central Register, nothing had come my way. I decided to try for a job abroad. The first attempt was for Nigerian State Railways, but nothing came of it. Then at last an advertisement appeared for the Public Works Department of Malaya. I'd seen Bing Crosby, Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour in "The Road to Singapore", and it looked rather jolly, so I applied. The interview was at the Crown Agents' Office in London. I got the job. Shortly after that I was offered two jobs by the Central Register, but my mind was made up. Singapore, here I come.

I had never been further from home than Jersey and the Isle of Man.

My eldest sister decided to give me a farewell party at her home, for the office lads, and she was flattered when Jack Beckett accepted the invitation. We made it a Bridge party. As we were breaking up, the Boss warned me that things were a bit dicey in Malaya - the Japanese were an unknown quantity. Nobody else had even thought to tell me that. But I'd given my notice, taken my superannuation contributions out, and had my injections. At last I was to leave the depressed Cotton-weaving North of England, the irksome Air Raid Precautions, and go to do a worthwhile job with the Colonial Service.

My girl and I decided to become engaged. She was just 17 years old. We had a little party for the family one Sunday to celebrate. I shall never forget the words my mother said to my sisters - never intended for my ears. "It won't last". But it did. At another Sunday party on the eve of my departure, my sister Gladys produced a bottle of homemade white wine, which she shook vigorously before pouring it into glasses.

The sweet concoction looked and tasted rather like coconut milk, but it was adequate for the only toast given that day. I gave it, with my mother's indiscreet aside in mind, and perhaps remembering - as I still remember - the College Prizegiving speech by George Lansbury. My toast, self-righteous and histrionic to a degree, was "to Love". The thought of that toast makes me squirm, but it reflected a very real sentiment in those days of wartime extremes of love and hate, of living for the day and always hoping for the best.

Because the appointment was for three years in the first place, with no home leave, all my books, clothes and gear had to be packed. On official advice I had a large wooden box lined with metal sheeting, and this was marked "Not wanted on voyage". In it went the clothes and books not required until I reached Malaya. My passage was First Class, with dressing for dinner and all that; no Wartime concessions. There was therefore a good deal of luggage for my cabin. Everything except one small case went ahead in advance to Liverpool, the port of embarkation.

Early on the morning of my departure, before I had got up, my father came into my room to say goodbye before going to work. We hugged each other in silence for a long time. There was nothing left to say. The decision to leave home and go abroad was entirely mine, my parents had never tried to dissuade me, and now a great feeling of guilt assailed me as I dressed and prepared to leave. My fiancee arrived, and only she went with me to the station. A fine rain made us bend our heads and hurry along down Tittybottle Avenue to the waiting train. With the carelessness of youth I had allowed too little time to get to the station, and the train was beginning to move as I flung open the carriage door and threw myself and my case inside. No parting caress, no awkward pause, but an unceremonious bundling into the start of my journey.

As the train gathered speed, and I my breath, there was time for a chat with two friends amongst the passengers before they alighted a little further on. Once alone, with my small case on the rack, its huge label "London to Singapore" - to confuse the enemy, perhaps? - my thoughts were a whirlpool. Loneliness and restlessness hit me as the train reached Preston. There was a wait for a connection there, so I bought a coffee to take away the November chill. Then I found a friend on the platform. I hurried to greet Frank Duckworth, one of the members of the old gang, and learned that he had been training as a wireless operator. He was on his way to a Merchant Navy interview, and we exchanged a couple of secrets and reminiscences as we travelled together to Liverpool. Frank left me at the Docks entrance with a promise to pass on my best wishes to my friends.

I'm glad we met, because I never saw Frank again. He joined the Merchant Navy, and was buried at sea somewhere in the Far East not so long after we had met on that cheerless November morning.

The Customs Office was crowded, and the formalities took a long time. A few hours passed before I stepped off Canada Dock to board SS Narkunda.