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For the first year of the war, I was an evacuee schoolgirl, continuing my studies ion Essex. One schoolfriend who didn't wait to take his A Levels (then known as Higher Schools Certificate) joined the RAF as soon as he was 18. He was shot down near Bremen in1942, escaped from his burning plane, but was captured and sent to Stalag Luft 3.
The Master of Baliol College, Oxford, had set up a relief organisation to send parcels to POWs. (This organisation subsequently became Oxfam.) As I was a student in Oxford at the time, I was deputed to arrange for parcels of books to be sent to Germany, so that Eric could continue to study for his exams. I recently found an old letter from their secretary telling me the last lot of books had arrived safely, and my friend was now asking for a supply of writing paper; this must be ruled with lines or squares. Afterwards I learned that prisoners were forbidden plain paper, as this might be used to forge ID documents for escapers.
As the Allies approached the POW camp, the prisoners were marched away, forced to leave books and all possessions that they could not carry, but at last the wonderful news: they would be home on V Day.
By this time I had a post in Hampshire, but decided that London was the place to be for the Victory celebrations; my train delivered me to Charing Cross and I crossed to Trafalgar Square and joined a line dancing the Conga. Led by two sailors we danced round the lions, singing and cheering. Just as I was planning to leave for Buckingham Palace to shout for the King, three lorries drove by. On their sides was painted: "HOME FROM LUFT 3", and sitting on the bonnet of one lorry was my POW friend.

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