NOT yet Christmas as I write this; yet too late for Christmas greetings, so may I wish you all a very good 2002. I hope that the world becomes a better place for everyone, and that each of you, within your own world, find life to be rewarding.

Round about this time, I tend to cast my mind back to days past, in this instance to the period up to Christmas 1939. We young lads of the Green Howards, still 17 years old, were stationed at the Chain Home Station on Staxton Brow. Staxton was part of the radar defence system on Britain's south and eastern coasts, still a big mystery to those not in the know and even we, sitting right on top of it, weren't in the know. The RAF people, who operated the site, and who presumably had bunks to sleep on, or maybe palliasses - whereas we just had our basic three blankets - kept themselves to themselves and I never knew of any soldier who had any conversation with any of them. Still, that wasn't a problem, we had a huge complex to guard, the wind blew unceasingly, the snow came down and it really was a most inhospitable place.

I think there were about 72 of us there, for I seem to recall we were given the option of how we broke up our duties, with 24 lads on roving patrol at a time. I think we opted for four hours on and eight off, which gave time for a bit of sleep, but the job was as monotonous as one could imagine, so much so that one bored young soldier decided to liven things up a bit. Out of the 24 on duty, two of us could go up one of the radar towers, to the 240-foot level, and keep an eye out from above. I usually went for this, if I could manage it, even though it meant starting duty about half an hour before the rest, as it took that time to climb the ladder up to the second platform.

We were all armed with Short Lee-Enfields, with the magazine loaded with nine rounds plus another one 'up the spout', as we called it then. The bored young soldier was a character called Pope, from somewhere in the East Riding, probably Driffield way. He was a farmer's lad, always ready for a joke. I can 'see' him today, quite a big lad, with big boots. I expect he'd walked many miles behind a plough, even at his tender age, and he had a round face which would have a laugh at anything. "Ar'm sick of nowt 'appening up here," he announced, before taking post one winter night. "Ar's gi'in to let yan off te'neet, so don't let on tiv any of 'em." And, with that, we started another cold night staring into the empty fields, with the clouds flitting past the moon and casting shadows on the stubble. 1am - 'Crack'. The silence was shatterd as 'Popie' squeezed his trigger, the crows in the nearby trees shouted out in annoyance and all hell was let loose. "Turn out the guard!" Indeed. Including all those poor lads who'd just got between their blankets after themselves being out in the cold. And soon there were about 70-odd young soldiers milling about looking for an intruder who 'Popie' claimed he'd seen dodge from one bush to another. No one was very pleased, except perhaps Pope who was getting 100pc support, although there were some suspicions already being voiced.

I expect if John Russell, who, as a young lieutenant, was OC of this happy band of brothers, reads this, he'll smile at the memory, and I think Bobby Pearson was sharing the honours with him that night also. Anyway, an RAF chap who had been sitting in the wooden outside latrine, which was just four walls of timber-lap, with no roof, concluded his deliberations, got up to go and 'thwack', the .303 round slammed its way through the woodwork, as he beat a hasty retreat to his hut.

Meanwhile, Private Pope had been interviewed. A close investigation was made of the spot where he claimed to have seen movement, which no doubt disturbed the sleeping sheep, but no trace was found of an intruder and, after an hour, the search was called off. Cocoa was made for those who were disturbed, the rest of us carried on, having had an exciting diversion from our normal dreary 'stag'. I have no doubt that 'Popie' permitted himself a satisfied smile on the results of his early morning 'entertainment'.

Malton's main street yesterday. A bullion van mounts the pavement and drives along, sounding its horn to warn pedestrians of its approach, until it reaches the premises it was collecting from. People on foot had hurried out of its path as the space between vehicle and the shops narrowed to just enough room for one person. I waited for the helmeted operator to appear and advised him that it was an offence to drive on the footpath. "Got millions of pounds on board mate," was the response, which, as I said, had nothing to do with pedestrian safety as far as I could see. Footpath kerbs are put there to separate iron and steel from flesh and blood, and I wish this were remembered more by those who seem to be unable to draw up at the footpath edge without first driving on to it!

lAdvice. The only thing that one can do with good advice is to pass it on. It is never of any use to oneself. Oscar Wilde (1854-1900).

Updated: 10:29 Thursday, January 03, 2002