Archie Greenshields joined the army in 1938 at the age of 17 and when 18, he was posted to France with the 2nd battalion, known as 'The Buffs'.

The events, which made such a dramatic change in my life, occurred with the outbreak of the Second World War in September 1939. It has not been an easy task to write this, as after more than fifty years I have only memory to rely on, no diaries or written documents, no colleagues or friends from that time to confer with.

Very little actual fighting took place in France during the early months other than skirmishes along the French/German borders on the French Maginot Line.

After duties Archie enjoyed drinking at all hours in cafes and estaminets, as well as flirting with French girls and visiting ENSA shows, which were laid on with top rate entertainers such as Gracie Fields. These were all very new experiences for Archie:

In January 1940 limited leave was granted and I was one of the fortunate ones chosen, remembers Archie. I was not to know then that it was to be the last occasion that I was to see my home for the next five years or so.

Archie had lived in Tower Street, Chichester with his parents and 7 brothers and sisters. He had had a fairly happy childhood, but became very unhappy in his teenage years, which was the reason for him signing up. Having so many children to provide for, his parents found it a great struggle to make ends meet. Archie continues: -

Leave from France was just the right sort of thing to stir the emotions of the people at home, who were rightly proud of the 'boys' who were doing their bit for 'King and Country'. Returning members of the B.E.F. were certainly feted, parents were proud of their sons and wives of their husbands, but all knew that reality would soon have to be faced.

a Christmas card designed by a POW, which was printed by the Germans and sent by Archie to his parents in 1943.

All those lucky enough to get a rare leave of absence, travelled to their homes in battle order, that is with steel helmet, rifle and ammunition.

After I got home, my equipment was kept in a cupboard under the stairs until the day of return, but my younger brothers proudly showed off items to neighbouring children. Father did not comment, but I am sure he remembered a similar weapon issued to him during his war, and therefore handled my rifle in the sad knowledge of what it was meant to be used for. It was a great pity that even at that stage he and I could not become closer to each other and open our hearts, even to discuss the fears and worries that would soon be faced.

Archie continued to fight the war until the dreadful day of 29th May 1940. After being caught up in gunfire, Archie received bad wounds to his thumb and hand, thus disabling him from using his rifle.   

I decided that I had better shift my position and get some sort of treatment if I was going to be of any further help and crawled low through young spring wheat growth heading towards the regimental aid-post. I did not get far when mortar shellfire fell all around me and I soon felt a heavy blow to my chest and leg, and a stinging sensation in my back. I laid still before attempting to crawl to cover and safety.

After being picked up by a passing ambulance, Archie was again under attack. On regaining consciousness he realised the ambulance had been destroyed and he was surrounded by bodies.

I stumbled and hobbled along in the direction we had been going and was caught up by a private of the R.A.O.C's who had suffered severe burns to an ear. We walked on together and eventually passed through a small village. Neither of us had eaten that day, so were driven to search for food.

We saw a woman looking out from a window of a house who beckoned us over. She gave us bread and water. She was clearly frightened by our presence and insisted we follow her to the large barn in the yard. There was a pile of straw on which we could rest, and we were more than pleased to have somewhere of limited comfort. I had no idea where we were, but were obviously in need of urgent medical treatment, my shoulder and chest bleeding, and a useless right hand.

It was early evening with the sun getting low when we heard the roaring engines of motorcycles and loud shouts, so hid ourselves under the straw in case of trouble. The motorcycles could be heard idling on the road, when the barn doors were thrown back. I could see the woman pointing to where we had by then hidden ourselves.

Two or three German soldiers with levelled rifles approached and she called out, 'Deutsche, Deutsche'! I thought she was indicating that they were Dutch, and a false sense of relief came over me, but rapidly disappeared.

Tragically Archie was captured by the Germans and became a prisoner of war for the next five years, going from one dreadful camp to the next, in Germany and Poland.

He experienced appalling living conditions and most of the time was starving and suffering from dysentery. Although on some camps they did receive the occasional Red Cross parcel containing extra food, which was a bonus for them all.

Eventually the day came, the end of the war, when Archie was to return to his beloved home country.

Many miles south of Nuremberg, on a lovely day in May 1945, waiting for the orders to move off, the area was busy with POW's preparing to face the day's march. I remember that I was trying to scrape off a few days' growth of beard with a blunted blade in my razor, when there was a sudden lull in the noisy chatter of the many men in the yard.

I sensed that there was a rush towards the entrance and joined the crowd, watching a soldier in full battle order approaching warily. A great cheer rang out when it was recognised that he was an American soldier. He was quickly surrounded and led to where the rest of us were excitedly milling around. There came another roaring cheer when the guards surrendered their rifles and a hunt was soon made to find their hated NCO's.

We were free at last. The feeling of release was overwhelming, like awakening from a nightmare, but wondering if it was really true.

While we waited for the transport that the Americans promised, they fed us with wonderful food, gave us cigarettes, de-loused us and issued clothing, assuring us we would not have to wait too long for repatriation. In less than a week we were transported by American half-track troop carriers to a large airfield they had captured.

After queuing for 3 days it was my turn to be taken to England by a Lancaster bomber. We landed at Beaconsfield, to be welcomed by a Salvation Army lady holding a tray, similar to those used by cinema usherettes. We were given some chocolate, cigarettes, and a stamped postcard to send home to our families. She said, 'Welcome home son' and would no doubt have kissed me had it not been for her tray. I found it so moving hearing the first friendly lady's voice in such a long time.

We were directed into a large hanger with tables laid for tea, a meal which most of us had forgotten existed and many could hardly manage, having to drink from cups once again after the tin cans and mess tins we had used for so long.

My dreams had at last come true. I was in England again.

We were taken to a large country house at Chalfont St. Peter's in Buckinghamshire. All of us were issued with new uniforms, seen by a doctor and dentist, and questioned about any evidence of cruelty or atrocities. We were told that we would all be home within three days.

After the three days, we were given railway warrants, a ration book for double rations, and some money, and sent on leave for 117 days.

It was something after 8 p.m. in the evening when I arrived at Chichester and decided to take a taxi to arrive home in style. I had no idea what I was to face, having had no news of my family for eight or nine months. I anxiously looked for signs of damage from those dreaded V1 weapons I had heard about.

I discovered Mum and Dad were visiting their favourite pub, being Saturday night - after all they were still celebrating the end of the war. But I had forgotten that in Chichester, and in particular in the community to which my parents belonged, news travels fast. Before I had got halfway to the pub I guessed they might be celebrating at, Mum was running homeward and so we met half way. After hugging and crying we returned to find Dad.

After repatriation I was given over three months leave, after which I was posted to the barracks at Dover and attached with other ex-POW's to a unit called the Belgian Baggage Party, for want of a more suitable title.

The duties, which I now had to carry out, destroyed what little ambition I might have retained in continuing to serve a further term with the regiment I originally enlisted with. As a result of casualties, very few of the original 2nd Battalion were left. Many of the old comrades that I had previously served with, had either been killed or were serving in other battalions, some away in the Far East, for the war with Japan was still raging.

I made a tentative attempt to re-enlist, receiving a remarkably negative attitude from an officer. As a result I began to look forward to a date for my release and was eventually de-mobbed in May 1946, returning to Chichester. I was given an extended release leave of nearly 3 months, during which I had to decide the direction my life was going to take.

I had no wish to continue any work in the building industry, a job which my father had chosen for me originally after leaving school, and instrumental for one of the reasons causing me to leave home and enlist in the first place.
   
I remembered discussions I had with a friend in Poland whilst walking the barbed wire perimeter of the camp, regarding plans for both our futures once the war was over. At that time we both realised these problems would have to be considered, especially for me if I found I would be unable to re-enlist in the army. Without a trade or any qualifications, it might prove to be difficult.

My friend, Vaniah Price, a Welsh schoolmaster before the war, suggested many options that could be considered, one of which was to join the Police. He pointed out that all applicants would start out on an equal footing and provided an applicant was fit and able to match the physical requirements of the Police force, it could be a worthwhile consideration.

Bearing that advice in mind, I spoke to my Aunt who had been an auxiliary police sergeant during part of the War. It was she who put me in touch with a friend who was a serving police officer. With his help I made an application, sat a written educational test, passed a physical examination, and was afterwards interviewed by the Chief Constable at Brighton.

Subsequently I was accepted into the Sussex Police Force and became Constable No.69.    

I served in the Police Force for 26 and a half years in various parts of West Sussex and was eventually promoted to the rank of sergeant. After so long in uniform, it was during the early 1970's I decided not to serve the next three and a half years to complete my full service of 30 years. I retired to take up civilian employment with the W.S.C.C. Surveyor's Department.

I had married my wife Barbara in 1947, and we had our first daughter, Julia Ann, who was born in May 1948. We then had twins, Barbara Mary and Jane Marianne, who were born in April 1951.

Looking back at the age of 74 years, to the struggles of my first beginnings, the hard times in a poor environment, followed closely by the dreadful wartime years, I realise that after all, life is for living. Thankfully I made something of mine, with the help I must say, of a loving wife and devoted children.

the letter sent to Archie's parents from the Record Office. His parents were not informed that he had been taken prisoner until the Red Cross did so on 21.3.41, nearly a year later.