ARNOLD HARRISON, of Little Hulton, recalls more stories from his childhood in Bolton . . . ONCE again I travel back to the 1940s -- my period of hardship with happiness.

Shearer's pig farm stood on the site that is now the tennis courts of St Ethelbert's School, Hawthorn Road. After the farm had been demolished and the land cleared, this was known as the back field, where our gang ruled against all invaders, especially the "Brick Field Gang".

Our gang -- what a motley crew; Granville Popplewell, Rene Goth, Jimmy Sharrock, Roy Marsden, Ernest Quarmby, Kenny Holehouse, Billy Alcock, Alex Theckston and myself, names to conjure with and faces to imagine.

Every day when we came home from school, a fire would be lit on the field and this was kept burning until bedtime. We played our football, marbles, top and whip up and down the back street.

For a change we would play cricket in back Pengwern Avenue, using the gas lamp as the wicket.

The number one rule was -- if you hit the ball over a back yard wall, go and fetch it and you were out!

If there was any dispute as to being lbw, you would have to carry on the innings by using the bat upside down and playing with the handle.

From time to time we would be troubled by an older boy, not of our gang, who would give us grief. We played with a tennis ball, and as he thought himself as a future England centre forward, he would demand that the person holding the ball throw it into the air so that he could head it. One day one of us (not me) produced an old cork ball out of his trouser pocket and hurled it up into the atmosphere. Our would-be future England centre forward soared into the air like a gazelle, and came down like a sack of potatoes. We were never troubled again.

One of our gang lived on Willows Lane, and I was a frequent visitor to his house, often being invited for tea and the odd party.

We were playing in his house one afternoon when there was a knock on the front door. He opened it and we were both confronted by a man in uniform, covered in gold braid and shiny buttons. He identified himself as an uncle of my friend and could he come in, explaining that he was a sub-mariner in the Navy and on leave.

My friend told him that his mother and father were both out at work and would not be home for some time.

He came in and made himself at home, stating that he was hungry and where did his mother keep the ration books. He searched the top drawer of the sideboard and took every ration book he could find, food coupons, toffee coupons, clothing coupons -- the lot!

Books clutched in hand he was off to do some shopping at the corner shop, informing us he would return shortly. He did return with about 20 tins of baked beans. The Navy must have turned him into an addict.

When my friend's mother and father came home, I had already left and out of the firing line. I never actually found out what happened and can only surmise:

1. Did his mother blow him up?

2. Did the Germans blow him up?

3. Did he blow himself up?

DURING the early 1940s I was a pupil at White Bank, and one of our weekly activities was to be marched from the school, through the cobbled streets, over to High Street Baths.

This, however, was not looked forward to, because on previous occasions I had been pushed into the deep end by older boys, and as I could not swim, my short life had flashed before me on one too many an occasion.

My plan on entering the baths, was to find an empty changing cubicle and lock myself in, bolting the door firmly behind me. All efforts of banging on the door and calling my name were ignored, as I would wait for the sound of the whistle telling me that it was going home time.

Every holiday, Easter, summer, September and long weekends, we would go to Lake Windermere; we had a permanent camping site by the side of the lake on Brockbank's Farm. This was situated on the right hand side of the lake as you left Newby Bridge.

We would leave home on Dad's combination, my mother packed into the sidecar with all the luggage, and myself perched on the pillion. It was a steady 30mph until we would finally arrive at the farm.

My father was allowed to store all our camping equipment in a barn at the back of the farm - the tents, flysheets, camp beds, stoves and cooking utensils. We had our own camping area in a field which was also occupied by five to six caravans.

The caravans, whose owners had cars, were situated at the top end of the field. We were at the bottom. On one occasion when I asked my mother why this was so, I was told that "the grass at the top was greener".

In the haymaking season, as a family we all helped on the farm, and as a young boy it was not easy but happy, and gave me one of those days I will never forget.

My mother had been into Windermere to shop and had bought a joint of beef. Later the same day it disappeared from our tent, and on investigate by my father it was found that the farm dog was the culprit - Mr Brockbank chained the dog up in the farmyard and whipped it. I hated all adults - in particular farmers.

I did, however, have a very good friend on the farm, a man named Ralph, much older than me, who was a German prisoner of war, and had been assigned to the farm as a labourer. He lived in the barn and worked morning till dusk, and certainly many times over earned his five shillings a week wages.

On one of the few occasions he had time off work, he invited me to go swimming with him in the lake. He took me to a small secluded bay, which he had previously found at the edge of the woods, and dived into the water.

I myself could only dog paddle, and with great effort stay afloat. But I decided with bravado to paddle out to my waist and enjoy the water.

I had been walking on a rock ledge, and without warning stepped off the end. The waters closed over my head, and I again saw familiar flashing lights. I tried to call out, the result being that I swallowed half the lake.

Lucky for me Ralph saw what had happened and pulled me out. All my life I have thought of him, and to this day wonder what happened to him after the war.

From that day every holiday we had on the farm, Ralph was part of the family, and mother and father treated him as such.

To me as a child he was a man from a strange land with a foreign accent, and an enemy of my country. But that was not important; he was my friend.

I eventually did learn to swim, and this was in Lake Windermere. My teacher was the daughter whose parents had one of the caravans -- another story.