To make a convincing noise, I had a large wooden rattle. I was pleased, as this meant that I did not have to carry a rifle.

When we got to the end of our journey, I think it was somewhere near the Wrekin, we were lined up in the station yard and then marched to the foot of a smooth, round hill.

My water-bottle bounced against my side and gurgled, and the webbing of my equipment cut into my shoulders. Our uniforms smelt, just as the real Army’s do. It was very realistic.

I think that some people had soaped their socks. I did not mind about my feet, I only wished that I had long pants on underneath to stop the chafing of the harsh khaki between my legs.

I suppose that when we stopped marching we were all ordered to do different things. I know that sergeants and officers looked blankly into the crowns of their caps where they kept a plan of operations. As the day wore on, a little circle of grease and sweat formed in the middle of these plans.

Suddenly I found myself rushing up-hill sounding my rattle madly, while blank cartridges went off all round. After that I was completely lost. I wandered along the edge of a field, close to the hedge, wondering what to do and giving my rattle an aimless twist now and then. I liked the noise. It was like a croaking wooden bird.

A head appeared over the hedge.

“Shut up, else we’ll be captured,” it said.

“I’m lost,” I answered.

“So am I.”

“What are you?” I asked.

“I’m a bugler.” He waved his bugle at me.

“I’m a Lewis gun.” I started to twist my rattle again.

“Stop it, you fool!” he shouted.

“Shall we sit down here and eat our lunch?” I suggested peaceably. “I’ll come round to your side if you like.”

I scrambled through the hedge and sat down beside the bugler. I did not know him. We were in different Houses. His hair was dark and already you could see the smudge on his upper lip where he shaved.

We unpacked our pork pies and began to eat. They were very good but they had a flavour of grease-proof paper, and the water in our bottles was all churned up and warm. It tasted of corks and rust and the dead old smell that lives in thermos flasks.

The chocolate was lovely. I nibbled it very slowly while I listened to the bugler talking of music and philosophy. He was very serious and seemed to think the Field Day a waste of time. I agreed, although I think I enjoyed it all, especially getting lost.

We sat huddled up under the hedge for some time; then we heard shouts coming nearer and nearer. We got up and walked by the side of the hedge until we came to a dried-up pool, and there three “enemies” burst out on us. They had been running down the hill and were hot and red.

They seized us, yelling, “You’re captured!”

We thought them very uncouth. We felt outraged and embarrassed because we knew that they would tear off all our fly buttons. This always happened to prisoners.

They were triumphing over us in a most disgusting way and were just about to wrench off our buttons when all the bugles blew. The Field Day was over.

The relief made me draw in a deep breath, then I ran as hard as I could, not trusting our enemies although the Field Day was ended.

We all sang as we marched back, and some of the sergeants and corporals, in outbursts of chivalry, carried the younger boys’ rifles as well as their own. I was delighted-it was like Knights and Squires or the Theban Band.

It was such fun to sing, “Down came a ruddy or bloody or any-other-adjective blackbird and pecked off her nose” to the tune of “Venite adoremus”. Nobody could mind what words you used on the way home.

People were too tired to be troublesome on the train. A few electric-light bulbs were thrown out of the windows to burst on the line like small bombs-that was all. I noticed many cap badges stolen from the prisoners of the other school. The pillagers seemed very fond of their treasures. They rubbed them against their trousers to polish them.