Summer 1940

I was living in Kent in 1940, aged thirteen. It was a long, hot summer and I remember standing, day after day, in our back garden, looking up at the high blue sky, dotted with clouds. Above me, the flotillas of German bombers droned their way westwards, their watchful fighters darting around them.

'Dog fights' developed as British fighters attacked them. Planes spiralled down with smoke pouring from them; parachutes blossomed, British fighters circling the British pilots to protect them from the guns of the German fighters. Occasionally there would be a clatter of metal as shrapnel or spent bullets fell - we watchers didn't seem to be aware of the danger.

It was exciting, a beautiful ballet, but always there was the heart-churning realisation that there were men up there and they were dying

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