On Gold Beach all hell was let loose and the noise was deafening. We were 300 yards from shore and had to scramble down rope ladders, across another ship, then packed into LCIs [landing craft] like sardines.

As we grounded, men surged forward and I saw one of the leading lads disappear from view. When I stepped ashore I felt myself going under too and immediately discarded my belt and backpack. A strong hand gripped my tunic and Lieutenant Jack Williams hauled me up.

Once ashore, we assembled into platoons and drifted off the beach, through the barbed wire, pushing folding bicycles on to a track leading to narrow country roads.

We mounted the bikes: truly a sight for sore eyes as we wobbled all over, some of us not having ridden bikes for years. After 200 to 300 yards, a shell dropped among us. We were showered with debris and we all ended up in the ditches.

I felt a very queer sensation and a warm sticky feeling running down my leg. I thought to myself, “God, I’ve been hit!”, but I couldn’t understand why I didn’t feel any pain. The guy next to me asked, “Are you OK, kidder?” as he watched me loosen my trouser belt and feel round my rear end. What a mess. I won’t go into the gory details, but the carbuncle that almost made me miss D-Day wasn’t going to give me any more pain. It caused a few laughs when the only casualty was my backside but very embarrassing for me as everyone tried to have a look. Nobody got on their bikes again, we just forgot to take them with us and I can’t recall any NCO or officer mentioning the word “bike” again.

Sergeant Charles Edwin Eagles S Company, 9th Battalion Durham Light Infantry