It was May 1940, and I was 21 years old, but I vividly remember the thousands of refugees with their few valued possessions strapped on handcarts and bicycles or merely tied to their backs. The poor weary children trudged disconsolately behind.

This was the Belgian-Franco border shortly after the German armies had launched their long-awaited offensive against the ill-prepared and ill-equipped nation of Belgium.

I was part of an anti-aircraft battery, who, as Territorial Army volunteers, had been rushed to France only days after Mr. Neville Chamberlain, (the then Prime Minister), had announced on Sunday, September 3rd, 1939, that "a state of war now exists between Great Britain and Germany."

Our guns were deployed in the field around a large farm, but the owner had hurriedly left with his family and had deserted his cattle. The cows were in great pain because of the urgent need of milking.

We did not have any farmers amongst our ranks, but half-a-dozen of us volunteered to become 'milkmaids'. We rounded up the cattle and drove them into the shippon, tethered them to the feeding troughs and then realised that they would probably need to be fed as they parted with their milk. We soon found sacks of provender in the barn. We had no idea of the quantities of each cereal that were needed so we just piled it all together in a large tin bath and stirred it up with water. Then we scooped it into the feeding trough - and, most surprisingly, the cows immediately began to devour the unappetising-looking mixture.

What next? The animals were bursting with milk, so we sat down on little stools and placed buckets between our knees. Gently, but firmly, we squeezed the teats and at first the cows kicked out with their hind legs, objecting to this amateurish friction. But, slowly and surely, and with patient persuasion, the animals began to settle down and part with their milk as they munched away at the meal we had provided.

In a really surprising short space of time we had buckets full of rich milk at our sides. But what should we do with it? Then I had an idea. "Come on lads," I said to my colleagues, "let's take the buckets to the roadside." This we did after finding a supply of metal cups in the deserted farmhouse. We then began to supply the passing refugees with this most refreshing drink, which was most gratefully accepted.

Our reward was the most sincere cries of "Merci, merci" as the men, women and children eagerly drank from that totally unexpected and life-saving gift.

This happened in May 1940, but I shall never forget the warm handshakes and expressions of gratitude from those unfortunate victims of that cruel conflict.

That was the very first time I had milked a cow - and it was certainly the last!

- Arthur Cope