We came across the Channel June the 8th, 1944, two days after the beaches had been taken. It was a rough crossing and we were landed into what seemed to me complete confusion. The beaches were still strewn with equipment and vehicles – and though there was no enemy – there was no doubt this was a battlefield.
Millie and I were army nurses – I could give you the regiment but it wouldn’t mean anything. What matters is we were to support the British advance towards a place called Caen. All we knew was it was meant to be taken quickly but that hadn’t happened and there would be hard fighting.
Looking back we were young and silly and naive and so terribly brave. We had a lot in common Millie and I. Both of us well educated, from well-off families. Both of us the youngest. Both of us had brothers fighting – mine an intelligence officer in the East, hers a lieutenant (it’s pronounced left-tennant if you please) in North Africa. She was a slight brunette, no bust to speak of, all gawk and angles. I was Red to the core, pale as the Senior Common Room at King’s college, curvy as the Circle Line (but far to young to be fat).