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I was living in a pub called the New Inn in Stoke Coventry. It was opposite the cricket ground. One day, when I was only 7 years old — must have been the beginning of 1940 — I heard a plane crash nearby; I was in bed because it was about 11 p.m.
One of our 4-engine bombers had been damaged on its raid and they couldn’t make it back to the airfield. They were so low that they could see the cricket ground that was surrounded by a housing estate. The pilot, co-pilot and navigator stayed with the aircraft and crash-landed it into the cricket field. The navigator baled out at the last minute but it was too low and he crashed through a shed roof and was killed. The pilot and co-pilot were killed too. With the impact I was thrown out of bed; it was very loud. The barman wanted to rush and help but my father stopped him as ammunition was firing all around. The next morning we tried to get some mementoes, but a policeman clipped our ears.

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