In September 1933, I became one of the new entrants to Watford Central School, one of the 40 boys and 40 girls starting there. There were just the two forms, each of 40 pupils.
The head teacher was Mr Adkins, inevitably nicknamed Tommy, who retired, I believe through ill health, in 1935.
He was succeeded by Joe Lilliman, a senior member of the NUT, a maths teacher and form master of, I think, the fourth year.
The classes were designated in years and in the boys' side, the first year, was taken by TL Petters, PAT, the second year by Prute Morgan, the third by Nugget Newcater and the fifth by Jock Hart.
To teach us art and music was a Miss Perkins. In the science block was a Mr Vinen, "Stinks" obviously, and the handicraft shed was ruled by a Mr Gentle who must have spent a fortune on blackcurrant pastilles from Boots as he always seemed to be sucking them and I recall walking round to the shop for a tin quite frequently.
There was another handicraft shed for those boys who were still at elementary school and that was run by a Mr Greenstreet, located up in the top half of the playground.
Discipline was fairly strict, as indeed it was in all the schools at that time, with the cane or slipper being wielded with considerable frequency and in my case, much preferable to lines.
But at least the corporal punishment was over and forgotten very quickly, whereas lines made inroads into my precious free time.
In fact, I still owe one of the prefects, Johnson, 500 lines, but I doubt that he will receive them now.
The hours ran from 8.45am to 12.20pm and 2pm to 4pm, the long lunch hour presumably to allow some pupils to cycle home. No school dinners then.
A large number of us took sandwiches, eaten in the hall where the collapsible tables were erected and dismantled by the third year boys.
The boys had to wear either a grey suit, short trousers until the third year or grey shorts with a school blazer, green with red piping and a very presumptuous badge on the pocket.
The headgear was also green with the centre occupied by a red circle surmounted with a red button, and heaven help you if you were spotted outside without the cap if you were wearing the uniform.
There was a bike shed and on at least two occasions, I found myself behind there, losing ignominiously in one encounter and crying my eyes out, and as for the other, I can't recollect the outcome.
But, as the girls had their own playground and bike shed, nothing more than a few scraps took place in ours, hardly exciting or salacious.
The school had a playing field alongside what is now Greatham Road but at our time, the road stopped short of the field. In winter, and if it had been raining, the River Colne would rise and the water came right up to the fence, so when the ball went over, an unfortunate had to wade into several inches of cold water to regain it.
If a spell of really cold weather set in and the pitch became frost-bound, we were sent on a cross country run from the school; down Lower Derby Road to Water Lane, over what had been the mill stream and the bridge, then a left turn to run alongside the river to Five Arches where frequently there was a flood.
Although steps were provided in an effort to keep folks' feet dry, it didn't work because the flood water might be three feet deep.
After wading through that, one needed to run to keep warm and we then ran across the fields to what is now Cox's Corner or Junction 5, along the A41 to the foot path about where the Elf petrol station is, to Finch Lane and then down Bushey Grove Road, Water Lane and home.
There were no changing or washing facilities provided so it was home in all one's muck and into the bath.
Ours used a geyser to heat the water and this cost money, so, after getting out, the mucky clothes were washed in the bath. Washing machine, where were you?
When I was in the third year, a Mr Mitchell appeared. His instant nickname was Moaner.
We understood that he was recovering from a serious illness, but we had not seen him during the preceding two years so the what and why of his condition remained unanswered, but it was plain, even to we intolerant 14 year olds, that here was a sick man.
He tried to teach us musical notation and, as in the third year, the classes were split into two sections, one to do technical studies, the other commercial, typing and book keeping. No one played him up, we just pretty well ignored him, making no effort to learn about music. I had taken the technical side as I intended to join the RAF as a boy, which I did much later. The grounding I had was invaluable.
During the summer holidays, Mr Newcater and the school caretaker took a party of boys to the Norfolk Broads on Barton Water, where they stayed under canvas, sailing and boating.
I never went as we could not afford it. But, and I am open to correction here, the director of education for the county stepped in and bought the piece of land there and some dinghies. He was just as good when he started the weekly camps at Cuffley.
I can recall the first three names on the register, Anderson, Armstrong, Ayers and I believe the latter was a great strength in Watford Cricket Club for many years.
Ayers offended "Henry" Hall, one of the prefects, and he was tipped upside down into a dustbin and others were ordered to sit on top so he could not get out.
Archie Wilson, whose father kept The Green Man in Watford High Street, was in the third year, an object of great envy, as we were now allowed to wear Long'uns and as we all wore elephant leg tweeds, he turned up in grey worsteds with a snappy crease.
He went on to be a pilot, as did John Shrosebury, both surviving as I believe. My friend at school. Tubby Moss, also became a pilot but did not survive.
My great friend, Norman Wells, became an infantryman and was severely wounded and disabled and, I was told, took his own life later on.
I joined the RAF as a regular in boy service, trained as a wireless operator and worked on radar in the Orkneys, Hebrides, Wick and Cape Wrath on the setting up and initial start ups until I remustered as aircrew, becoming a navigator/wireless operator on the mosquitos of two group on night interdiction, and the low level raids as typified by the Amiens Jail raid.
I must, after all these years, find myself intensely grateful to the Central School for what it taught me, both in material and ethical ways.
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