War won where?

The war was won here, in the back gardens of our towns and cities, where plucky Brits literally dug for victory.

The war was won here, in the factories, where women, the young, the elderly, worked together to make the arms that gave our lads the weapon superiority that made victory inevitable.

The war was won here, Bletchley Park, where the masters of codes and ciphers cracked the German’s secret messages, making us masters of the war.

The war was won here, in Churchill’s war office, where between bouts of depression, impassioned drinking sessions and occasional ‘other business’ with a favour Wren, the decisions were taken that made the impossible victory inevitable.

The war was won here, in the laboratory, where the science behind mass production of penicillin was perfected, meaning that for the first time in the history of war, those injured in battle had a feasible chance of survival, our troops would survive to fight again and again, like the world's first zombie army.

The war was also won here, in the hospitals, church halls and council offices, where civilians donated the blood that fuelled the transfusion service that saved the lives of thousands.

The war was won here, in the fishing boats of Dunkirk, home to the spirit that turned our greatest defeat into our greatest victory.

The war was won here, in the research centres and laboratories that developed radar, giving us the air superiority that won us the Battle of Britain and ultimately the war.

The war wasn’t won here, on the bloodied sands, Normandy beaches ringing with shells, bullets and screams, as terrified soldiers trudge slowly through death by shooting, death by drowning, death by explosion, into the arms of the enemy, seemingly impossible odds, seemingly an impossible mission. Luckily, as the they slip, slide, trip, fall, duck for cover, run, march, swim, walk, across bodies of the fallen, under bodies of the fallen, into traps, into safety, over mines, into madness, luckily, for them and for us, it doesn’t matter. The war wasn’t won on the beaches of death, it was won in the back gardens, in the factories, in the laboratories, in the crossword puzzlers heaven, in the hospitals and in Churchill’s lavishly furnished drinks cabinet.

Then as now, the real heroes are at home, sitting in front of the fire with a glass of whisky, beer or brandy. Those on the front line are merely tolerated, their lavish tendency towards death and disability is tolerated less so. But, still, I dare not complain, day by day I rise early and go off, to the front line, never knowing what to expect, never knowing which day will be my last, for mine is not to reason why, mine is simply to clock on, to clock off, to turn off.