Dad served in the First World War. For how long is an open question. Many British military records from that time, including his, were lost in the Blitz of 1940-1941.

Like most veterans, Dad seldom talked about his war. But chances are that it all began with his love of horses.

The youngest of seven children, Dad was only three when his father – a Wesleyan minister – died. Living in Exeter, Devon, his widowed mother had little money. But affluent relatives on a nearby country estate had a stable full of carriage horses. Dad loved to spend time there.

When the war started, the government requisitioned all those special creatures. Dad was heart-broken. Still a young lad then, he may have dreamed of rescuing them. As soon as he could, he enlisted in the cavalry, expecting to work with horses. But he was assigned to mules.

Ironically, Dad owed his life to one of those mules. Somewhere in France, he was unloading a pair of pack mules from a train when a shell hit the boxcar. One mule had already unloaded quietly, but the second one planted his feet and refused to get off. I can just imagine Dad yelling through the wreckage at the deceased mule: “Serves you right, you miserable, goddam bloody bastard!”

That’s when a piece of shrapnel hit Dad in the knee. He was invalided home to England after a very short war. Had he tried to coax that second mule out of the freight car, he would have been killed too. Instead, he lived into his late 80s, with only an occasional lame step to remind him of his near escape.

In his final years, Dad was thrilled to receive compensation for his war wound. Despite his missing service records, the British government tracked him down in Canada six decades after the fact and presented him with a cheque for £50. Better late than never! Even 60 years late!