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I was a 13-year-old schoolgirl when war broke out. I was at the County School and when the sirens went we would scatter class by class to various houses around. Complete with our gas masks, which were always kept close to hand. If the siren went when we were at home, we all went in the cupboard under the stairs.

Living in Wales, we received a lot of evacuees from the cities. They arrived at our church’s vestry complete with labels and church members took them in as part of their families.

One young girl I remember, went to live with a married couple, great friends of ours, who had no children of their own. She became as a daughter to them. Even when she returned home at the end of the war, she kept in touch. She visited them throughout the rest of their lives and she brought them great happiness.

At the time my father was the Minister of the Church and became a firewatcher in the town, which he did on a regular basis with other people including other ministers.

Our house was on the side of a main road, and early in 1944 great convoys of Americans and their equipment started passing our house, day after day and week after week. There were lorry loads of soldiers. Some waved at me and I waved back, while I stood at the front gate. Equipment of all sorts thundered passed. They were all strange to me. Amphibious ducks, which went on land and water and were shaped like boats.

At the time I never wondered where they came from or where they were going, as information was very closely guarded. In recent years I realised they were all gathering for Second Front D-Day landing — 6th June 1944.

Now I wonder how many of those who passed me, survived the onslaught.

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