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I remember Christmas 1943 very well — December 25th was my wedding day.

On duty in an RAF Fighter Command Operations room, I was summoned to see my senior officer who said that my recently acquired fiancé — a fighter pilot — was posted overseas to India and had requested leave to marry me before he went: this his Commanding Officer was willing to grant provided that I also wished to marry and could get time off. How could I refuse?

Consequently, we both made our way to our home town of Hinckley in the East Midlands and two days later, with both families pulling out all the stops, we were married, by special license, on the afternoon of Christmas Day in our local chapel. It was a white wedding. My fiancé, Ken, had persuaded me, on one of the few occasions we had managed to meet up since our engagement, to use his coupons to buy a white wedding dress. The veil and headdress were borrowed — I never did know the source — and I carried a bouquet of white and pink chrysanthemums instead of the roses I had coveted.

Even the purchase of my wedding ring, in the time available, proved to be a nightmare. Because of wartime shortages the only wedding rings in the shops were broad bands of 9ct gold costing £1 19s lld (£1.99p) and generally regarded as not good enough for such a special occasion. I shared this opinion and therefore made it known that I hankered after a 22ct ring, as it would have to — I sincerely hoped — last me a long time. By some miracle Ken managed to find such a ring — the only one in the shop and the correct size. As it happens I was right: I have worn it down, over the years, to a very thin hoop that is now rather tight on the not-so-slender third finger of my left hand.

My sister Olive was my bridesmaid, looking pretty in pink, my father gave me away and a mere acquaintance who happened to be on leave from the RAF nobly stepped into the breach as Ken’s best man. Ken, of course, was in uniform as was his best man. Our formal photographs have hardly seen the light of day, as the photographer had clearly imbibed rather too enthusiastically (not that I blamed him — after all we had interrupted his precious Christmas dinner).

The family meal afterwards was more like a wake than a wedding — rations having been pooled as best they could — with three of my old aunts quietly sobbing and the rest of the guests certain that I had made a great mistake and that it would never last. By this time I was not certain either!

There was no time or opportunity to arrange a honeymoon and, to crown it all, a telegram arrived a few days later to say that the posting to India had been cancelled and that Ken was to return to his unit on expiration of leave. We were lumbered with each other for life!

My new husband never did go to India, but was sent initially to Bognor Regis, joining 122 (City of Bombay) Squadron of North American Mustangs, operating from an airstrip in Beauvais, France, then to Belgium. He went on to do two tours of operations, not without incident. Shortly after commencing action he was shot down when returning from a sortie over France, landing in the English Channel and being rescued by the Royal Navy whilst drifting with the tide into German occupied Le Havre. As he said to me at the time, it was either a case of being burnt to death or drowned and even though he could not swim a stroke, decided to jump and rely on his Mae West. He was taken to Arromanche (a man-made port) for return to his unit.

After a few days in England, when I was lucky enough to see him for a few hours, he returned to Beauvais to continue operations. On first seeing him I asked what on earth had been happening. He said ‘Nothing,’ but as he had no eyelashes and eyebrows, hair that was singed and a scorched complexion, he had to come clean. And that was only the beginning of his time with the squadron. His second tour took him further afield, escorting Bomber Command as far as Berlin.

On Christmas Day 2005 we celebrated our 62nd wedding anniversary. I only wish my old aunts had lived long enough to see that their tears were wasted!

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