I caught my first sight of Hurst late in 1943 when, aged 9, I walked with my 11- year-old brother Roger and our mother across the muddy fields from Hassocks Station to be interviewed by the school's wartime Headmaster, Walter Dingwall.

When, years later, I asked my mother how she came to choose Hurst for our education, she explained that in 1937, as captain of the Saracens Rugby Football Club, my father had visited the school with a scratch team called the Saracen Gypsies - partly, I suspect, with the idea of encouraging older boys to consider joining the Saracens when they left. Though the school lost the match 6-0, it clearly won my father's heart because he went home full of enthusiasm for all he had seen, telling my mother that he hoped it might be possible to send their sons there one day.

Such hopes seemed to be dashed after the outbreak of the Second World War in 1939 when our father's plane failed to return from an RAF reconnaissance flight over Nazi-occupied Norway and he was presumed killed. However, in the autumn of 1943 our mother received a letter from Lord Portal of the RAF Benevolent Fund, with a list of schools a which the fund was prepared to pay our fees (about £60 per term; weekly piano and carpentry lessons a pound or two extra). Seeing Hurst on the list, her decision was instant.

Roger and I were both nervous about meeting Mr Dingwall. The situation was not helped by the fact that wartime petrol shortages meant there had been no taxis at Hassocks Station, causing us to leave a thick trail of muddy footprints across the immaculately clean floor of the Headmaster's House entrance hall after our long walk across the fields.

Fortunately (though unknown to us at the time), Walter Dingwell seems to have been unusually well disposed towards members of the RAF and their families. As Roger pointed out to me years later after reading Paul Brickhill's book 'Reach for the Sky', before coming to Hurst Dingwall had, while still a housemaster at St Edwards, Oxford, helped fund from his own resources his former pupil, Douglas Bader, through the RAF's Officer Cadet College at Cranwell. Despite having lost both legs in a flying accident Bader went on to become Britain's most famous fighter ace of the Second World War.

If, in accepting us, Dingwall had also allowed himself the thought that a Saracen's son could, potentially prove a useful asset to the school's own rugby standing one day, he would not have been disappointed. Roger went on to become an outstanding scrumhalf, playing three seasons in the 1st XV, which he captained in his final year. He also organised the OJ rugby team for its annual match against the school for several seasons. Reminiscing on the touchline at an OJ match many years later, former rugby master George Lambert recalled Roger as the finest rugby brain to have come out of Hurst in his time in charge of the game at the school. I too enjoyed rugby but felt I had more success in the Ist XI hockey team, which I captained in 1953. It gave me the memorable -perhaps unique- experience of leading the school against an OJ team that included three internationals (Derek Day, Bob Schad and Neil Forster).

Inevitably, many of my earliest memories of Hurst were linked to the war. The excitement of an air raid warning in my first term, for instance, when the Junior School had to be evacuated from its dormitories on the top floor of the headmaster's house down a narrow, little used staircase to Mr and Mrs Dingwall 's own quarters on a lower floor made an impression. Having given up their double bed to myself and five others to bed down in, head to toe like tinned sardines while the rest of the boys spread themselves around elsewhere as best they could, the Dingwalls saw but the raid playing cards and drinking sherry with Junior School headmaster, 'Goodie' Goodwin and Matron, Mrs Fathers. It was the noise of their clinking glasses and merry laughter, rather than any sounds of enemy action, that I remember as the main cause of lost sleep that night.

80 years on, the Normandy landings on June 6, 1944, also come easily back to mind - and not just because of the amazing sight of a constant stream of aircraft passing overhead, each bearing the distinctive black and white striped wing markings identifying Allied aircraft involved in the landings. It seems strange now, but for me the day was also marked by a particularly muscular demonstration of the fireman's lift performed by the School Captain, V W Maitland, in Chapel that evening when one boy, McNee, was so concerned for a brother taking part in the invasion that he fainted and had to be carried out on Maitland's broad shoulder. For a 9-year-old boy with a front stall view, it was a moment of high drama and - having overheard a whispered conversation between teachers at my previous school describing a girl who had fainted in another class as having 'just melted away' - a matter of some relief to see the McNee had not been reduced to a puddle of water on the Chapel floor.

My mother's thoughtful offering of books like 'Tom Brown's Schooldays' and 'Goodbye Mr Chips' at Christmas, 1943, gave me sufficient awareness of the general ethos of mid-20th century boarding school life to spare me the more acute distress of leaving home felt by some of my contemporaries. Occasionally such boys felt driven to run away- or 'do a bunk' in the parlance of the time. Four boys who chose this course-possibly as much out of devilry as genuine homesickness - managed to get as far as Three Bridges railway station, where they were caught attempting to board a train for London. Here, unable to produce tickets, they were inevitably handed over to the police. At this point their quick-thinking ringleader, Penfold, attempted to present their situation in the best possible light by explaining that he and his friends were actually trying to get to Scotland Yard to report the presence at their school of a dangerous German spy - none other than Junior School Headmaster, 'Goodie' Goodwin himselfl Pressed for evidence of this extraordinary assertion, the runaways could only add insult to injury by suggesting that the unusually large toe cap on their headmaster's left shoe - necessitated, in truth, to accommodate a foot wound honourably acquired in the service of his country in the First World War was a secret compartment used to conceal messages being passed to the Nazis.

Understandably enough, Goodwin did not take kindly to what the police told him when the boys were returned to his care later that day; and though the brazen nature of their explanation may well have earned them a short lived place in Junior School legend, it was the 'whack' of Goodwin's cane, followed by manfully controlled 'yelp', clearly audible through the thin wall between his study and our dormitory, that was etched most firmly in my mind.

Although I recall no air raid warnings at Hurst after my first term, it was a different story in the holidays, particularly for those of us returning to homes in or around London. Hitler's desperate attempt to develop his infamous 'Vengeance' weapons - in the form of the Vl Flying Bomb and V2 Rocket­ gave life in the capital a distinctly dangerous edge for a while. Since we were by then living in Morden, south London I recall more than a few air raids spent squeezed with Roger, my mother, and sister Anita in a cupboard under the stairs said by the Government to offer the best chance of survival in the event of the house collapsing. We soon learnt to recognise the distinctive sound of the Vl 's engine and knew that while we could still hear it, it would continue on overhead, leaving us safe. The time to get worried was when we heard the engine of an approaching Vl cut out, leaving us to count off the seconds to impact - not always as far away as we would have liked. On occasional trips into central London, needed to shop at Gorringes, the school retailer, or to visit my grandfather at his office near Hatton Wall, air raid sirens would send us scurrying for shelter rather more frequently, usually down the steps of the nearest Underground station. The ominous 'crump' of a V2 Rocket explosion might also be heard occasionally, though thankfully, in my own experience, never nearby. They fell insidiously from the sky in complete silence, leaving no possibility for air sirens to give warning.

I must admit that looking up at a Vl overhead, or down into the massive crater of a recent V2 explosion, did sometimes leave me disturbed by the thought that someone over in Germany so obviously wanted me dead. But it was not a thought that lingered; the Allies were clearly winning, and Hitler would soon get his comeuppance. How far deeper and much longer lasting must be the mental scarring of children of the age I was then when exposed for vastly longer periods than I was to the much more devastating impact of munitions available to combatant groups in today's world, I cannot possibly imagine.

News of Hitler's death in April 1945, followed by Germany's surrender a few days later, was received with immense jubilation at Hurst. To mark our victory Dingwall 's successor, the Rev RC Howard, authorised an immense bonfire to be lit on the South Field, around which the whole school gathered to celebrate. In the absence of conventional fireworks (long absent in the war) a few thunder flashes were procured from OTC (now CCF) stocks in the armoury and tossed into the flames, to dramatic effect. To the juvenile minds of boys like myself there was a curious satisfaction in seeing that amongst the waste timbers included on the bonfire was a quantity of heavy wooden desktops 6 or 7 ft long, mounted on caste iron frames linked to equally long, hard wooden benches, designed to seat four or more boys, squeezed closely together. The desks were heavily carved with the initials and dates of generations of our predecessors, who must have laboured at them on their desperately uncomfortable seats since Edwardian times. For me the day seemed to _bethe happiest of my life so far and, for those well-worn desks, a fitting end.

Soon after the start of the Summer Term, 1946, Mr Goodwin told me he had entered my name with seven or eight other boys to take the Common Entrance Examination later that term. I was puzzled, as I was still well short of 12 years old, the usual age to sit this exam for entering the Senior School. When I remarked on this, he was a little taken aback, but then admitted he had made a mistake over my age. Flatteringly, he still assured me that he thought I had a fair chance and let the matter rest. Understandably, I approached the exam itself with considerable apprehension - as well as a firm determination not to let myself down. The week spent waiting for our results after the exam was particularly challenging, but when they finally came through we were all left smiling. On a picture post card featuring an aerial view of Hurst I informed my mother of the good news. 'Dear Mum', I wrote gleefully, 'WE HAVE ALL PAST!'

Though I may have successfully concealed any spelling shortcomings from the examiners, it was not a slip that escaped the eagle eyes or mirth of my brother and sister. I still have that card in my Hurst photograph album, picture side up, message side stuck firmly down, sparing my blushes from the chortling comments of our grandchildren.

Note:

The photo shows: From back, left to right B R Bartlett (Chevron), R J A  Leaver (Chevron), K R Jenkin (Fleur de Lys), C J Simr (Star), R Luxton (Shield), R P H Boan (Star).
From front, left to right G L Lyne (Shield), D M Mitchell (Chevron), G L Hill (Chevron), G C Hazzan (Chevron), B D Renn (Shield).

With many thanks to Bruce for his wonderful memories