TRUTH . . . SETS FREE

I was not very good at ball games and usually left till near last when two captains picked the teams at school. Sports day wasn't much fun either because I could not sprint well and my eleven year old girlfriend was the Middlesex County champion.

But one day I received third prize in the hundred yards dash. Instead of liberating me into the realms of accepted sportsmen, the prizegiving bound me and made me ashamed. It was not true. I had not come third, Joyce had elevated me from fifth as she was one of the young judges. She had cheated on my behalf.

Years later, during World War II, I was called for military service. My posting was to an Infantry Training Battalion for potential leaders, where drill sergeants marched us to exhaustion and physical training instructors incessantly chased us over obstacle courses while bellowing insults in our ears.

'Smith! … My grandmother can move faster than you!'

Came a hot summer day when the platoon lined up in full battle order - steel helmets, rifles, back packs, heavy boots, the lot. The Senior PTI barked: 'You'll run two miles down this road, round the telephone box on the village green and back. Fast as you can: MOO-OO-VE!!'. With that he threw down a few firecrackers to make sure we got off to a good start.

Once out of sight a few clever barrack-room lawyers climbed over a hedge ready to join in when we came back. It was not long before I began to wonder what was the matter with everyone, for the further we went the easier I found it to stay in front. At the halfway telephone box I was well clear when a hidden sergeant stepped out to rubber stamp the palm of my hand. It was rewarding to display this as the lads jumped back over the hedge to join me in the lead. The last I saw they were setting off in the opposite direction.

As I reached the barracks the red and black striped jerseys of the welcoming committee were plain to see. I was a clear winner and prepared myself to receive their congratulations. They were obviously surprised to see who was in front.

'Thank God you can do something, Smith!' bawled the hated senior instructor.

//Continued