I grew up in Eastcote, a small suburb of London. As there wasn’t much to do, me and my younger brother, Hal, would create our own worlds, pretending to be heroes and warriors we’d read about in books and comics. One of our favourites was Billy the Cat — a small boy who jumped from roof to roof solving crimes.

From the age of 13, my parents sent me to Merchant Taylors’ School in Chorleywood. As I soon found out, the school had several peculiar traditions, and one of them was its cadet corps, which everyone had to do for two years. We were given a choice between the RAF, the navy, the army and community service — which, an older boy told me, entailed wiping old ladies’ bottoms, so I ruled that out. I opted for the army.

We were given uniforms that must have been leftovers from the first world war, because they included 30ft bandages, or puttees, which you wrapped round the tops of your boots in case you found yourself in a muddy trench. It may have been 1985 but it felt like 1915. But the best part was the rifles, .303 Lee-Enfields. They were minus the ammunition, which was just as well, ’cause in my first safety drill I accidentally fired it straight at the instructor.

I admit I didn’t take it all too seriously. My attitude was probably best summed up by an incident when I was about 14. As part of our training, one night eight of us were dropped off in a remote part of Sussex. Surrounded by thick woods, we were in pitch-black, in the middle of winter, and we didn’t have a clue where we were. Our task was to find a camp site 14 miles away. We were each given a pack of “iron rations”, and between us we had a torch, a compass and a map.

We hadn’t got far when we all started bickering — probably over who should be in charge. And somewhere along the route I managed to drop my green beret. I said I was going back to find it and would catch them up. I found the beret, but finding my platoon again was another matter — they’d vanished into thin air. I ran. I shouted. I screamed. It was like The Blair Witch Project. I could hardly see in front of me, but I kept going, stopping in my tracks every time

I heard a rustle of leaves or a crunch of twigs. My eyes and ears were playing tricks and I imagined all kinds of things — wolves that could smell me, something sinister lurking a few steps behind me... The only distraction was hunger, though my iron rations had more in common with old horseshoes than proper food.

I had no idea where I was, or if anyone was ever going to find me. And this was years before mobile phones. But then, out of nowhere, I saw a small light through the trees. A house! My prayers were answered. But of course, as all 14-year-olds will tell you, a strange house in the woods can only mean one thing: axe murderer. I pulled out my Dan Dare commando knife. It had a black blade so as not to reflect the moonlight and alert the enemy. In the handle was a secret compartment for secret messages, matches and fish-hooks. Armed and ready, I rang the bell.

A man and woman came to the door. Confronted by a teenager covered in camouflage paint and armed with a knife, I’m sure there was only one thing that came to their minds: axe murderer. But they invited me in and I grabbed their phone to dial home. Dad answered. He’d been in the RAF, so I knew he’d know exactly what to do in enemy territory. To my surprise, he started laughing. He said I’d got myself into this mess — I’d have to stay put till morning.

The couple took pity on me and offered me a plate of shepherd’s pie. But hang on. This was enemy territory — it could be poisoned. Then again, I’m not one to offend and I accepted. For poisoned shepherd’s pie, it was actually rather delicious. When they offered me a bed, I took no chances and put the knife under my pillow. Next morning, after a possibly poisoned but hearty breakfast, they dropped me off at a train station and paid for my ticket back to school.

If only all enemies were that nice.

Of course, when I hadn’t shown up the previous night, the other boys had alerted the school, who’d had to tell the army one of their boys had gone missing. Unbeknown to me, soldiers, search dogs and helicopters had been sent out to comb the area. The other boys got no sleep and nearly froze on what turned out to be the coldest night of the year.

Single-handedly, I’d tarnished the school’s reputation with the army, and for the rest of my time there I was known as “the boy who got lost”. It was a permanent black mark against my name. Having said that, today I look back on my cadet experience with great fondness, nostalgia even. No doubt it helped to shape the person I am today, and it definitely seeped into the back of my mind as a writer. For that I will always be grateful.

Conn Iggulden’s new book, Lords of the Bow (HarperCollins, £17.99), is out now

Interview by Ria Higgins.

Photographs: Georgie Scott

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