It is now June 1 and neither The Queen nor Mr Brain have been invited to 'celebrate' the anniversary of the 'D' Day landings which took place on 6th June 1944. I shouldn't think either of them is bothered about this or they would have done something about it – both of them having enough sense and clout to summon up an invitation to most social events if they so wish. I am, however, reluctant to let the moment pass – they are both getting older and, in their different ways, have played a significant part in those far off events. I was reminded of Mr Brain's contribution recently by a friend who was talking and worrying about her grandson's 'gap' year. The boy, exhausted by the rigours of Media Studies and Computer Gaming, seems incapable of travelling to Australia along with thousands of others without daily communication with home and weekly emergency packets of sterling from granny...He is the same age as Mr Brain was in 1944. So I asked Mr Brain if he would write a few words about that particular day and I reproduce it here without changes. What it does show is that while, according to Mr Brain, I exaggerate the truth like Churchill, he understates it.'

6th June 1944 – the most exciting day of my life. Three days before my 19th birthday I was second in command of landing craft LCT 727. I joined LCT 727 on 18th April in the Forth of Firth in Scotland. We sailed round the top of Scotland to the west coast and joined the 34th LCT Flotilla together with 11 others. After some seven weeks training we moved to Southampton on the south coast of England, and from there carried out one of the final landing exercises in Studland Bay. The prospects of the Real Thing became very real and pretty frightening.

Then 'D' day arrived. After a 24 hour postponement, tied to a buoy in Southampton Water, and playing endless games of twist (and downing a glass or two of whiskey) with fellow officers and the troops on board, we were off to Normandy in the middle of the night. The only craft ahead and between us and the French coast were the impressive, and brave, array of Naval Minesweepers clearing a mine-free route ahead. Then, in the early dawn light, the first sight of the enemy occupied French coast. It was an eerie feeling.

Then, not far from the beaches, we halted and, surrounded by every sort of huge Naval vessel, we watched, while these together with massive rocket firing ships and every sort of bombardment from the air, took place. It was awesome and incredible – simply the most amazing and mind bogglingly impressive firework display imaginable. No enemy aircraft to be seen, and barely anything coming back at us from the other direction. One felt that nothing could survive on shore.Then, at 'H' hour, the bombardment stopped. We immediately continued advancing the short sea distance to the actual beach – on a little French seaside town called Ver sur Mere. On the British sector we were one of the 132 Tank Landing Craft each carrying some 6 or 7 tanks forming only a part of the whole massive invasion operation. We were the first to hit the beach carrying Armoured Vehicles of the Royal Engineers. These were designed to destroy the beach obstacles and other defences of various sorts. At the same time we also carried Royal Engineer personnel strapped from head to toe with explosives also to be used to help blow up these defence structures.As we unloaded our vehicles one of them caused severe damage to our unloading ramp, with the result that it could not be raised up again to make our bow watertight. We needed to get out of there, fast. After moments of panic, and the subsequent dedicated help of the ship's bosun, and an ingenious use of various ships cables, temporary repairs were achieved, and we could limp back to England...to do the same journey again and again..We had been lucky, for during the period of the first wave of occupation the Germans were still in a state of shock and did little by way of return of fire. A few hours later there was a much worse state of affairs, with a great deal of return fire and many casualties.

One felt that no buildings or any structures could have survived in such a battle. I was therefore surprised on revisiting the beach and village of Ver sur Mere some 40 years later to find just a sleepy little Normandy village apparently unscathed with its little Norman Church and 'old' houses still standing proud in a state of peaceful recline – amazing!'

When he handed this over to me Mr Brain said he didn't think it would make much of a story. Perhaps not. I know he doesn't think about those times at all, being one of those people who lives in the present, but I think it's worth us giving it a thought once a year.