In the Spring Term of 1943 I was a nine-year-old in the First Form, one of some 30 small boys firmly but amiably controlled and instructed (in that order) by Miss Hill (“The Duchess”), the Headmaster’s sister. The form room was worryingly close to the Headmaster’s study and the Sixth Form room, but reassuringly far from the staff room. We wore short trousers and grey woollen socks up to the knee, blazers and caps with the familiar badge based on the arms of Thomas Hardye, and dark blue gaberdine raincoats. We carried gas masks in cardboard cases slung on a string. The gas masks were inspected from time to time by Ticker Cole, the sprightly chemistry master. Our school uniforms were inspected all the time by masters and prefects: caps on at an angle or socks falling down brought reproof or worse.

Discipline was mostly well maintained and mild corporal punishment commonplace, but masters varied in their approach and in their abilities. I still remember a vigorous cuff from the headmaster, just for being in his way in the corridor. I greatly profited from the numerous blows that I, like most others, suffered from Charles Steemson (“Steamboat”). He was a brilliant teacher of Latin, charismatic, always kindly and cheerful, but intolerant of inattention or thoughtlessness. A fine teacher of maths and another firm disciplinarian was the genial Sam Fox (“Saffy”) whose sarcastic reproaches were memorable. Worse punishments were writing out lines (usually beginning “I must not”), learning mnemonic rhymes from Kennedy’s Latin Primer, detention or caning, carried out only by the Headmaster.

There were about 30 teachers led by Headmaster Ralph Hill (“Monty”) and the second master “Dunc” Lidbury. Junior boys were taught maths by the brisk Miss Osborne. Art was taught by Miss Evans and the only other mistress was a formidable black-clad French mademoiselle, and later Mrs Dutot. Some of the older masters had been at the school pre-war. Others, like the eccentric history master Mr Harvey, had emerged from retirement to replace the younger masters who had joined the armed services for the duration.

Most of us were day boys, many travelling to and from school by bus or train; I had a two-mile walk (later I was allowed to cycle) from the bus stop to the village. In the winter blackout it was dark before I got home. Boys were divided into four houses mainly for the purposes of sports competition, each identified by a stripe in the tie: Hardye (gold), Lock (black), Pope (blue) and Treves (green). There was one boarding house, South Walks (the Headmaster’s) ­ until the school expanded and a second boarding house, Southfields, opened under Walter Lancashire. Two additional houses were formed: School (silver) for all boarders and Hodges (red) named after the affable and rubicund Chairman of the Governors Wilfred Hodges, a local wine merchant.

There was school on Saturday mornings, rare half-holidays, and sports most afternoons except Tuesdays when the CCF, of which membership was almost compulsory from the age of 13, had priority. In winter came rugby (or football for juniors) and cross country running for all. In summer there were athletics and cricket. There was frequent PT in military style under old soldier Joe Hopewell but no facilities for swimming. Apart from the occasional nature walk there were few outings of any sort, but we were all taken to the Palace cinema in Durngate Street to see the film of Shakespeare’s Henry V in 1944.

Exposure to the arts was limited: the music (and English and CCF) master was Jimmy Whittaker - a decent but pernickety man whose patience with the silliness of boys soon lapsed into imprecations (“Blast you my boy!”) to the delight of his mostly philistine audience. He played the fiddle – I never heard him use the word “violin”. Bertie Cruse the French master played the trumpet and there were other instrumentalists and a choral society. The visual arts were well developed and Steamboat was an excellent actor and director, as well as teaching Latin and running cricket. Each day began with an assembly and prayers, and the uphill task of teaching Divinity fell to the learned and tolerant AG de L Willis.

Dorchester had not been a target for German bombing, unlike Portland and Sherborne (mistaken for Westland Aircraft’s factory at Yeovil). In the blackout we could see the Milky Way shining brightly until the searchlights were turned on. American troops assembling in Came Wood for the D Day invasion could be seen from the school windows and they occupied Kingston Maurward House and Warmwell aerodrome, with their aircraft overhead providing additional distractions. When the invasion came on 6 June 1944 scores of aircraft towing gliders flew overhead, and all the Americans had suddenly disappeared.

The Spring Term of 1945 started very cold. Few houses were centrally heated and we were glad to come into the warmth of the school, miraculously maintained despite fuel shortages by the trusty George Bareham. Outside, the grounds were tended by the sterling Benny Morris, an old soldier and former Hampshire professional cricketer.

While the heating was good the food was nutritious but unappetising, with frequent gristly meat, frosted potatoes, soggy cabbage and stodge, prepared by Mrs Bratby. The food was better, though, than in the British Restaurant near the County Museum. We all stood for grace before meat as the duty master declaimed “Benedictus benedicat per Iesum Christum Dominum Nostrum” or suchlike. We were old enough to remember the delights of bananas and ice-cream pre-war, but such things had not been available since 1940 and rationing was strict, and to become stricter. The butter ration was 2 ounces per head per week, and sweets 4 ounces. Only fish, offal, fruit, vegetables and bread were unrationed, although in short supply. Dried milk and eggs came from the USA and whale meat sometimes appeared. We boys were not yet troubled by the acute shortage of such things as razor blades, petrol and car tyres, while of course clothes rationing bothered only women.