I WAS a thirteen-year-old schoolboy at Sherborne School when word came round of an offer to be a film extra during the summer holidays. Arrangements for my flight home to Bückeburg, West Germany, and the British Army of the Rhine were put on hold. The film of James Hilton’s classic novella, Goodbye, Mr Chips, was being made at Sherborne in the shadow of the much-lauded 1939 …
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