I've spent the last few months interviewing veterans for the International Bomber Command Centre. One of them, a man named Denis, told me the most astonishing story I've ever heard first-hand, about his time on the run in occupied France after being shot down in July 1944. I sat there for fully an hour, mouth agape but saying not a word, as he told his tale. He still suffers nightmares as a result of his experiences, which included (among many, many other incidents) hiding and fighting with the Marquis, being captured by the Germans briefly before escaping right on the point of boarding a train for Berlin, and eventually being picked up by Patton's tanks and liberating several small French villages with them.
It was only after his wife died that his son managed to convince him to tell his story. He subsequently wrote the rawest, most honest account of feelings and experiences of life in Bomber Command and beyond for the benefit of his grandchildren.
After we'd finished the interview Denis mentioned that he'd told me more that morning than he had ever told his late wife. And I'd only met him the morning of the interview.
It's only been in recent years, really, that a lot of these stories have come out. A lot of it I think is because grandchildren are suddenly showing an interest. In Denis' case, the other motivation is the respect he has for the two members of his crew who died when the aircraft was shot down, and the others who have all died now as well. He has belatedly realised that he is the only one who can tell their stories, and given he is now well into his 90s he realises he mightn't have all that much time left in which to do it. And so he's now been happy to talk to total strangers such as myself who ring up one day out of the blue.