When I was 25 I was interviewed for a paediatric house officer post. Towards the end I was asked if I had anything to add. I said that I was registered provisionally as a conscientious objector and that the tribunal might soon be considering my case. While waiting with the other candidates, I was called back to be asked if I was a member of the Society of Friends. I said that I was not, but that I was prepared to explain my position. They did not want my explanation. Another candidate was offered the post.

I had a few weeks of my obstetrics job to run, but the thought of being out of work sent me into panic. The next morning one of the paediatric consultants called me: the appointed candidate had withdrawn, so did I want the post? They accepted the uncertainties of my future and I took the job.

Two months later in Kensington Town Hall I appeared before the tribunal. I thought I had prepared well. (Until then the biggest decision that I had made was to leave the boy scouts to concentrate on my O levels.) I had sent in my own statement and those from a consultant physician from my first job and two of my elders from university. People's readiness to help impressed me: the Edinburgh University senior lecturer had offered to attend in person if the date was convenient.

I took a witness. The headmaster of my old school said that he did not share my views, but respected the serious thought that I had put into making my decision. I presented myself politely and clearly, but my case was rejected.

It had been unpleasant, but not surprising. I appealed and received yet another polite letter: “For the assistance of the Appellate Tribunal in making arrangements for hearing the appeal, I am to ask you to be good enough to complete the questionnaire enclosed.”

Meanwhile, I remained anxious. My father, a general practitioner, had no support for my position, but was tolerant of me. My brother tried to be helpful by telling our parents that I might be in prison for only a few months.

The appellate tribunal was at 2 pm on 2 November 1959, in Victoria. This time I took two witnesses: my headmaster and an elder from Edinburgh University, whose expenses were paid. Getting them there was one of my first experiences in management.

The members of the tribunal listened, mostly to my witnesses. Both said that they did not hold my position, but considered me exceptionally sincere. I was questioned briefly. As a doctor in the army I would be expected to carry a gun: if an enemy soldier broke in, would I be prepared to use it? I said that I would not.

I was told that my appeal was accepted, conditional on my working for two years and 60 days “in forestry or on the land, or full-time in a hospital, as orderly, porter, stoker or stretcher-bearer, or as a Doctor working under a public authority.”

I took my witnesses out to dinner. During the meal, vaguely realising that I was keeping my parents waiting in anxiety over my welfare and the family image, I telephoned them.

Later I sent each witness a carefully chosen long playing record to express some of my immense gratitude.

I continued my job in paediatrics and later, with Ministry of Labour and National Service approval, moved to a junior post in psychiatry, the field in which I subsequently specialised.

I felt fortunate that the tribunal's restrictions, set to penalise me, let me do what I wanted to do. I had been terrified of being told that I must join the armed forces or go to prison, but also of being told to enter general practice. That would have meant facing difficult emotional matters with my father.

As an egalitarian, I liked the appellate tribunal's manner of lumping together porters, stokers, stretcher bearers, and doctors. But I do not remember noticing, until my recent rereading of the papers, the capital D for doctors.

Sitting, with pen, paper, and a list of names outside the tribunal doors had been two elderly women. As I left each time, they asked my name and if I was treated fairly. With intense feelings on leaving the tribunal room and concerns to look after my witnesses, I forgot to ask who they were or why they were there.

In the book On Being Wounded (Fulcrum Publishing, 1991), Edward W Wood wrote of “the voices of my mothers” and suggested that female ancestors tried to protect American men from aggressive excesses. I like to think that that is what those elderly women were trying to do for British conscientious objectors.

I had feared the tribunals. But even more I feared having to speak of my position to my medical seniors and, most of all, telling my peers. No one derided me. I was treated well.