Lest We Forget....

It’s the anniversary of D-Day.

I don’t know about you, but watching the news over recent days, I find it very moving seeing the last remaining veterans, most of whom are now (at least) in their late 90’s, heading over to Normandy one last time, meeting cheering school children, enjoying lovely food and wine and generally getting treated like royalty, and quite right too.

I imagine the veterans would have come from all sorts of different walks of life, before then being united in the common goal of liberating Europe from the Nazis. What must it have been like to be a scared 18-year-old kid that day? How would you feel today if you had another 80 years of life, but your good pal running ashore beside you did not? You'd probably think about for the rest of your days.

I am proud to say that my Uncle Sam was a Commando on Sword Beach on D-Day. His younger brother, my father, was then a 19-year-old kid in the Royal Navy. After the war, the two brothers and a third brother, John, ran a motorcycle garage in Ayrshire. My dad led an eventful life and brought joy to almost everyone he met. He died in the early 90's when he was just 67 years old.

My mother, in contrast, lived to the ripe old age of 92. This was somewhat surprising as her diet appeared to me to consist almost entirely of chips and strawberry tarts; I guess that’s genetics for you. She spent the latter years of her life in a care home in Ardrossan. One day I went to visit, and a kindly old gentleman was sitting beside her wearing his distinctive RAF cap. He turned out to be Flight Lieutenant Duncan Currie, a quietly spoken man but full of interesting tales. His eventful World War 2 career involved, amongst other things, dropping food parcels from his Lancaster over occupied Holland when he was just 21 years of age. 21!! Now, knowing my mother’s culinary preferences, I usually brought some strawberry tarts with me when I visited, and this occasion was no different. Interestingly, despite her developing dementia, my mother experienced distinct moments of laser like lucidity when the precious cakes appeared before her. Mr Currie, it transpired, had noticed them too.

“Any chance of a wee cake son?”

Having heard of his wartime exploits I decided he could have two. After all, it seemed the very least I could do. Well, war hero or not, the look of utter consternation my mother gave me as I handed over not one, but two of the precious tarts will stay with me for a very long time.

After that I saw Mr Currie on quite a few visits. One day however he was dressed up in his Sunday best. It turned out he was off to Largs harbour for a special date in his newly polished wheelchair. The Battle of Britain Memorial flight was due at the Scottish Air Show at nearby Prestwick, and they had heard all about him. The Lancaster from the flight made a special detour to personally honour Mr Currie, flying at low level around the harbour several times, then tipping its wings to him as a mark of respect before flying off for home. He absolutely loved the majestic sound of the Rolls Royce merlin engines. So did we, and everyone else in the crowd that day too. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house.

Mr Currie died in 2019, at the age of 95.

These old guys are amazing, whether Lancaster pilots or D-Day veterans. As are all of the other men - and women - of so many nationalities and races who fought so bravely for the freedoms we enjoy today, many of whom never got to return home. We should always remember them. The people of Normandy in particular will never forget the sacrifice of all those young allied soldiers, and the Netherlands certainly didn’t forget Flight Lieutenant Currie. Towards the end of his life they presented him with a special commemorative medal. If only they had known about the strawberry tarts too.

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