NOBODY remembers D-Day better than Roy Hobbs, who was born just eight short years later. Here he tells us what it was like to be there, morally:
“We were gathered in the high-sided landing craft we’d christened the Holly Valance, waiting for dawn. The mood was nervous but resolute, like the morning of June 23rd 2016.
“As the assault began, I geed up the lads – women weren’t part of the attack, which to my mind overturns feminism once and for all – by reminding them why we were doing this: bragging rights over the Boche for the next century.
“The Nazis fired at us, because they had a war machine that was literally the envy of the world, very well-drilled troops and excellent generals. There’s a lot to admire there, watch any documentary about it.
“But we weren’t deterred and stormed the beach with the same fortitude we bomb into the hotel pool after nine pints, leaving the Yanks to get shot like in Saving Private Ryan. Serve them right for joining in late.
“I personally charged a pillbox with a grenade in each hand and took out 18 of the squareheads. ‘That’s for Euro 96,’ I sneered, and lit a cigarette, like we all smoked then and no busybodies complained.
“Clocking off at 5pm, I poured myself a pint in a Frog bar. ‘Bloody easy when you’re not being undermined by the BBC calling you racist,’ I remarked to the captain.
“‘Damn right,’ said my commanding officer, a tanned, merry fellow named Nigel. I’m not telling you his surname. I don’t have to. ‘Shows what a bit of backbone does. Next stop, Berlin.’
“And within a year we’d won the war, Churchill was re-elected in a landslide, and Geoff Hurst volleyed home in the final minute to make it 4-2. It was our finest hour.”
