Even in wartime Liverpool, the war wasn't constantly with us. When summer came and there was no snow to play Gallant Defenders of Stalingrad, we had to find other things to do.

One day, in a cupboard at my school, Abbotsford Road, I found a book. The book was brand new. Its pages crisp and clean. It had a title something like "The Scoutmaster's Guide" by Lord Baden-Powell. I read at it a little bit. The first half was of tales of the travels of the founder of the Boy Scouts. Just the kind of great stuff that an eleven year-old craved. Stories set in the Canadian northwoods, in Africa, in India. And then there was a brief account of how he came up with this idea of Scouting. The second half was a virtual handbook of what Scouting was and how to teach it. Its philosophy. How it could help a boy to build character. It told you lots of really neat stuff like how to tie knots. How to build a campfire. How, and where, to build a bivouac from tree branches. How to track wild animals! I was drawn in. I'd go back constantly to read more. I thought about the book all the time. I wanted that book. In the end, I decided I had to suspend my new found philosophies. In fact, philosophy be damned. I wanted that book.

One day I stole it.

I had a plan. I would start my own Boy Scout troop. Oh, there was a Boy Scout troop up at the Rankin Memorial Church at the top of Porchester. It was run by our milkman. He looked remarkably like Errol Flynn so he was worthy of any 11-year old's respect but - well, he was still a grownup. Imagine running a scout troop yourself, though!

First, I approached Davy who lived on the corner of Parkhurst. In my father's garden shed, I thrilled him with stories from my - always hidden - trove of riches. I amazed him by shortening a rope - without cutting it! The Sheepshank, I told him loftily. Then I told him of my plan. And that, if he joined me, HE could be deputy leader! He was sold immediately.

I had decided that, if I was successful at all, I wasn't going to persuade many kids to go along. I was a shrimp with a glib tongue and only had just so many persuasive powers. I would go for eight kids. A Scout Patrol. The smallest group in scouting. Even that seemed a lot. But it was amazing. Within three weeks, I had, with Davy's help, recruited eight tough 10 and 11-year olds from hot, boring Porchester Road. Each one fell in turn under the spell of Baden-Powell's thinking and each became a willing and persuasive recruiter for the next member of what we called The Owl Patrol..

Not a very cool name but an owl was really easy to carve with a penknife into the top of a scout staff. And a staff was vital. Apart from the fact that B-P gave a dozen uses for a staff - it looked just like the quarterstaff that Errol Flynn had in Robin Hood! The thing was that, being the Patrol Leader, I had the right to collect Dues. I actually got them to give up pocket money. We took the dues to Jack Sharp's, Liverpool's outlet store for scout equipment on Whitechapel and before long we had the general look of a Boy Scout patrol. Not everyone had everything but every last one of us had a genuine 'kerchief at the throat, a genuine campaign hat (like a Canadian Mountie - wow!) and a genuine scout staff. With an owl carved by me at the top of each one. And as English schoolkids, we already wore shorts and kneesocks. We were READY.

Obviously it was beholden upon us now to go out into the world and carry out the most important part of the B-P philosophy - to do a good deed every day. Helping old ladies carry groceries just didn't have it. Mowing the grass for Dad certainly couldn't be considered a Good Deed. We needed something BIG.

The Owl Patrol was holding onto its enthusiasm quite well. There was a definitely a degree of curiosity regarding my seemingly endless new knowledge about knots and wonderful rituals but the novelty of it all tended to hold off too much investigation - and most of it was attributed by me to an uncle who was now fighting Rommel (almost single-handedly) in North Africa. This always accounted for momentary lapses of memory on my part until I could get back to my hidden reference to refresh my input. The next day I would just amend what it was to what he'd really said. I was always one day ahead of what I was teaching them.

It was obvious, though, that I was going to have to come up with something else beside The Tenderfoot Scout Test. Everybody got to be a Tenderfoot the first week after we got the partial uniforms. Pride was running high. These men needed to get out. Show off the new badges we'd bought from the scout supply store. The Second Class test would have to wait. They wanted something more. But what to do? WHAT was I going to do with them? I couldn't give this up. This was the most power that I'd ever had in my life.

One day, I got home and there was a shiny black car parked on the street near a group where two ladies in frocks and tiny hats were talking with some of the aproned housewives that leaned on their front gates. Most of these women served double duty: as wives and Mums and as workers in the nearby Napiers munitions factory, their hands yellow from handling explosives. I swung on the back of a gate and listened.
The well-dressed ladies were telling the women about a fete and horse show that Lord Sefton was setting up to help the Alder Hey Hospital fund. They hoped that everyone could attend. After they left in the big car, there was some general clucking and not a little comment on where one was supposed to find the time for such goings on. But I - I had found my cause. Help the local hospital indeed. Yes! In good deed. I called a meeting of the Owl Patrol. I told them what I planned and there was great excitement. The Owl Patrol finally had a mission. None of us were quite sure what it was but we were ready to give it all we had. Whatever that was. Saturday seemed like months away.

The Owl Patrol lived on the edge of the city. Only blocks away, the houses changed to countryside, most of it owned by Lord Sefton. Nearby was West Derby Village, older by far than Liverpool itself, and mentioned in William the Conquerer's Domesday Book. Between the village stocks and an ancient church were the big black and gold gates to Lord Sefton's estate, Croxteth Hall. Through the gates, a pink gravel driveway ran straight ahead between fields of wheat to disappear into the treeline half a mile away. Today, the big gates stood wide open. We'd all trespassed often on Lord Sefton's land but this was the first time we'd entered this way. Even now, we kept an eye peeled for gamekeepers.

Halfway along the path, scuffing our shoes on the gravel, we saw ahead of us a huge chestnut tree at the side of the path and seated on folding chairs at a card table in the shade were three ladies in flowered frocks and big hats. We were a rather scruffy crew in spite of our pieces of uniform and as we approached, they readied their ticket rolls and their cash box. Reaching the table, I spoke right up. "We don't have to pay today. We're here to work," I said firmly.

"Don't have to pay? Why ever not? It's to help the hospital," said one of the ladies.

"Well, yes," I said patiently. "That's why we're here, too. We're here to help. We're Boy Scouts, you see." I held up my staff with the carved owl. "Owl Patrol."

She looked at my undoubted symbol of authority. "Oh, I suppose it will be alright then. Go ahead."

We moved on down the path. The Hall was ahead of us and the Owl Patrol followed me with huge grins. Now came the toughest part for me. As we headed toward the sound of a military band, I stopped the guys. "Okay, now listen. What we've got to do is go around wherever people are working and just ask them if you can help."

They were staggered. "Are you crazy? We just got in for nothing! Not at all. I'm going to the coconut pitch!"

Big problem. I couldn't lose control now. But Davy was at least 2 inches taller than me. Same with Pete.

"That's right! That's why you got in for nothing. Because you're Boy Scouts. Because they believe that you'll help. See? You have to. Look - we help first. For two hours. And then we can do what we like. Okay? That's how we'll do it." Unbelievable! They went for that. Took them a minute but they went for it.

Myself, I ended up in Lord Sefton's stable currying the horses for the Horse Show. Pete was like Fat Albert on TV. He volunteered, and was accepted, to help on the tea wagon - the only place at the fete where you could get Tea AND scones and meat pies. Davy went straight to the coconut pitch to help. Because of U-boats in the Atlantic, wooden "bottles" were substituted for coconuts. The others scattered everywhere. And we all really did work hard. People were delighted with "those nice little Boy Scouts".

Two hours later, we all met at the horse field. The band of the local army barracks struck up to welcome Lord Sefton on to the field. His chestnut horse's rump was shaved in a perfect checkerboard that glittered in the sun. We were amazed when Lord Sefton had that horse do tricks we'd thought only Trigger could do. The crowd was pushing forward to see when a policeman suddenly said to Davy (he was tall so he HAD to be the leader - hmph...) "Here. You lads. You come along with me." We looked at each other. Oh, no! We're discovered! He led us through the crowd and out on to the field.

"Here you are, boys. Now spread out and you hold your staffs out to each other. Got it? Got to keep these people behind this line." The bobby turned to the grownups and called out, "All right, then. You have to stay back. I'd appreciate it if everybody stands behind these here Boy Scouts. All right? Thank you very much. Okay, lads, good one!"

So there we were. Holding the line. Right at the front of a crowd of grownups. The horses' galloping feet only yards away from us. Faces aching with grins. Life had duties. Life had rewards. On the way home, Davy said it was the most perfect day of his life. I never could come up with anything like The Horse Show ever again.

One by one, the kids dropped out. Finally it was just Davy and me. Then I made a decision. I went back to Abbotsford School and put the scouting book back into the cupboard. It was a little dog-eared but it was okay. Then we went to the Regal Cinema: Errol Flynn in "The Sea Hawk". Just simply wizard!

Eric Hall © 8/97