For young men of my generation in post-war Britain, a new rite of passage had emerged. On achieving the age of eighteen we became liable for compulsory military service.

This was a hang-over from the second World War. Britain had been one of the few exceptions in pre-war Europe in that she did not have peacetime military training, whereas in France, for example, it had existed since Napoleonic times. Not wishing to be ‘caught short’ again, as we had been in 1939, the government decided that a trained military reserve was desirable and had decreed a continuation of conscription after the war’s end. Thus National Service was born.

The period of service was nominally two years but it varied between 18 months and 27 months depending on various manpower factors.

It was possible for those in full time education or an apprenticeship to obtain deferment but most opted to get it over with before embarking on any tertiary training or career. Besides, it provided a convenient break between schooling and employment and the majority – including me, - viewed it as some sort of adventure I had turned eighteen in May of 1948 and having left school, I now awaited the summons with a good deal of trepidation.

The anticipated buff envelope arrived one morning and I was required to report to a registration and medical centre in Ealing. On the appointed day, in company with a host of others, I was ‘processed’.

After submitting a plethora of personal details I was questioned as to my military preferences. Although I did not hold any great hope that these would be granted I gave the Navy as my first choice and the Air Force as my second. My third, hardly a choice at all, was automatic!

Next, I was subjected to a rudimentary mechanical aptitude test, being required to assemble a mortice door-lock from an array of components, a feat that I accomplished successfully. Finally, I was handed over to a battery of medical specialists who prodded, tapped, measured and listened to my cringing carcass.

The eyesight test, always my Achilles Heel, did not prove to be an obstacle but one group of white-coated experts seemed particularly interested in my feet, although the fact that they were perilously close to my head did not seem to bother them. After much deliberation, something was scrawled on my record form and I was ushered on to the next cubicle.

Some weeks later, my fate was made known to me.

I had been medically assessed as A2 (A1 being the acme) on account of my being flat-footed! I have never discovered any evidence to support this diagnosis but, as a result, I was destined never to don the Blue, either light or dark. The logic of this decision still escapes me. Whereas sailors travel mostly by ship and airmen by ‘plane, the poor old Tommy has to march everywhere on his own two feet, flat or otherwise!

The truth, of course, is quite obvious. As the required number of Navy and Air Force personnel is much smaller than that of the Army, it stands to reason that the majority of recruits, regardless of their wish or medical disposition, would end up in His Majesty’s land forces.

And so the die was cast. There was no avenue of appeal that I was aware of and lacking an uncle who was power in the Ministry of Defence I just had to accept it. There may have been a latent Nelson or a dormant Tedder residing within me but, as subsequent events were to prove, definitely no quiescent Wellington!