I was in the regulars in the last big war and needed a couple more years after hostilities ceased to finish me 12 years service.

Two weeks before Christmas, I caught a bug. I woozed around for a couple of days, then reported sick. I had pneumonia.

Two days before Christmas I was granted a couple weeks sick leave with the promise I’d stay home and rest up.

I remember that Christmas journey. I was 110 miles from home and the rail route meant backtracking. Loaded down with my pack, I set out to hitch a ride home. It was all I could do to hoist the pack on my back, but with lots of rests, I made the mile walk to the highway and stuck out the thumb.

Every Swoddie in the British Army was on the road that day with the same purpose in mind. It started to snow. My feet got colder. I began to think about a relapse.

Finally a flat bed truck open backed pulled up filled with troops. They helped heave me aboard. The only room left was at the tail end. The snow came down in earnest. I burrowed down the slip-stream, swirled a froth of snow and diesel fumes. I grew colder and colder.

It took three hours to get me in the vicity of Stoke and when I lowered myself down, my feet were frozen stumps. I humped my pack and on frozen feet stumped my way to the bus stop. Foremost in my mind was whether I would survive in my weak state.

But I made it ’ome, said hi! to the old man and ma. It took me helluve time to thaw.

I never suffered no ill effects of my ordeal. It must have been the healing balm of the spirit of Christmas. The last one there for a long time. I left for Canada the following November and never saw ’ome again for 27 years.