The kids point and stare while they yell hurtful remarks to my face. The adults snigger and say cruel things behind my back. At first, it made me recoil into my humble bungalow, and more so into myself. But I wouldn't let them win. I'm fought far worse enemies than those arseholes in my life, and from when I was a young boy.

I used to hate my daily walks to the local shop for my papers and essentials. Being as I lived in a small village, there was little custom to require a delivery service. So, everyday I trudged warily to Bensons, the convenience shop on the corner of Marlboro Road; braving the torrent of abuse from the gangs of youths who congregated there. The papers were my only connection to the outside world. The one thing that took me away from the misery of this grubby little village. I had no TV, no internet, and no friends to visit and chat over a cup of tea. I'd much rather spend my days gardening when my arthritic body allowed me. My evenings I'd spend reading and most nights, too. I would read into the early hours and usually later. Nightmares, you see. Every night was the same and had been since I could remember.

Anyway, today, things changed. A letter arrived in a crisp brown envelope adorned with the royal crest. An invitation to a memorial service. Inside I was smiling and underneath my protective mask I was, too.

The local yobs sat on the benches in the square on route to the shop. Smoking that foul smelling weed and spitting piles of green slime everywhere they huddled. A few of them kept their heads buried in their posh phones, others bopped their heads to some awful racket that blasted down their tiny and expensive headphones. A couple of others threw fag butts, chewing gum, and sticky sweets at me as I trundled by, head down, trying not to make eye contact with them.

"Hey, Mr. Burns." One brave youth called me. Apparently some character's name on a cult TV show I'd read about in the daily tabloids. "Why don't you ever get invited to a bbq? I'll tell ya. Cos you always burn your chops!"

The kids roared with laughter. Inside, I was dying to smack him up the side of the head with my walking cane. Just once and I'd be satisfied. You could almost guarantee I'd be the one ending up with a fine I couldn't pay. Army and state pensions are a pittance compared with the cost of living in this day and age. One thing life had taught me in all my 96 years was life threw at you what you gave, but you didn't always get what you deserved. Karma always came around eventually, though. These little shits would get theirs. Of that I had no doubt. They had no idea what people such as myself had sacrificed years ago so they could live their lives relatively free and safe.

I ignored their remarks, head down again and feet shuffling closer to the safety of the shop. The bell above Mr. Benson's shop door tinkled, and the door groaned on its hinges as I entered.

"Good morning Mr. Dixon. How are you today?"

"Good morning, Mr. Benson. I'm well thanks, apart from the unusual aches and pains. I see the little shits are out in force again."

"Mr. Dixon," said the shopkeeper, motioning with his eyes to a young mum with two young kiddies. "Please, you must try to refrain from using that language in my shop. There are impressionable ears around."

"Damn it. They probably know more curse words than I do."

The woman shot a glance, scowled, then turned back to the magazine she was browsing through.

Mr. Benson smiled. "Maybe so, but please, you must stop. Just the papers, is it today?"

"Give me a pack of cigars and a box of matches." I tried to smile back. "Oh, half a dozen eggs, a white loaf, and a first class stamp. I need to reply to this letter." I thrust the brown envelope toward him.

Mr. Benson took the envelope and carefully unfolded the letter and read to himself. I watched his lips move as he methodically read each word. Reading has never been his strong point, but you could guarantee he'd never short change you. He was good with numbers. I'll give him that.

"A ceremony to celebrate yours and others bravery and sacrifices. That's amazing! Will you be attending?" he asked.

I pulled out my battered wallet. A black-and-white photo of me and the five best friends I ever had fluttered to the tiled floor. The last one we had taken all together.

"Damn it. I most certainly will. I'm sure my son will chaperone me."

One of the young boys picked up the photo and studied it for a few seconds. He looked up at me nervously, his shaking hand stretched toward me, gripping the photo. I tried to smile under my mask and mumbled a thank you. I foraged into my pocket and produced a shiny fifty pence piece. Then I placed it in the young lad's hand, and I quickly took the cherished photo from his grubby little mitts before he damaged it. His mum gave me a 'tut' and rolled her eyes at me.

"Good for you. Nothing less than you deserve. You take care now and ignore those kids out there."

I tucked the precious photo back into the safety of my wallet, pocketed my change, and picked up the carrier bag handles in my frail hands.

The bell tinkled once more as I left the shop. The youths were still hanging around. There was no other way past them, so I dipped my head, pulled my jacket collars up and tried to ignore them. They never took a blind bit of notice of me until I'd gone past them. Someone yelled, 'incoming' which was then followed by a series of almighty bangs. I jumped out of my skin. My stick slipped from my grasp and I toppled over. The carrier bag of shopping flew into the air. The egg box opened and some smashed onto the grey pavement with a splat. Kids cheered as they grabbed my cigars and matches, then jeered. My heart raced and my breathing became faster. I was gasping for breath. Eyes wide now, I looked into the eyes of these callous teens. They continually barraged me with their taunts. The entire world seemed to slow. A pain was rising in my chest and the struggle to breathe was a fight I was rapidly losing. I tried calling out for help. Help from them, help from anyone. I recall some kids spitting on me and tipping cans of Coca Cola over my head before I saw the flash of their extortionately priced trainers as they ran off whooping and hollering like a pack of wolves.

It was hours later when I awoke in the hospital. Wires attached everywhere and buzzing machines flashing and bleeping all around. A pretty young nurse stood over me, a beaming smile etched on her face.

"Welcome back, Mr. Dixon. I'm Nurse Carter. You gave us quite a scare."

"Not half as much as the one those flaming louts gave me." I replied. "Where am I? Is this St. Cuthberts?"

"Yes, it is. Can you remember what happened?"

"I had just left the shop so heading home and unfortunately I have to walk past these imbeciles. I remember them throwing things and shouting abuse at me, then a series of loud bangs. That's when I panicked, lost my balance, and went down. Everything came flooding back. It was like I was there again," I spluttered through snot and tears.

The machines bleeped even more and lights flashed from green to amber to red and all the combinations in between.

"Now you must calm down, Mr. Dixon. You've had a suspected heart attack, you don't want another. Trust me, it could well be your last." Nurse Carter reached to the side of my bed and pulled out the oxygen mask, and slipped it over my mouth. "Try to breathe. That's it, nice deep breaths. In and out."

It was then I realised my mask wasn't on. The nurse didn't look fazed at what she saw. She still wore that warm, calming smile. I relaxed and my breathing became regular and smooth. My head seemed to clear of the panic and anger I'd felt a moment ago.

"Can I get you some water? You're not allowed to eat anything yet, I'm afraid. The doctors still want to run some more tests on you," said Nurse Carter.

"Y-y-yes, please," I stammered back. My throat was dry, my lips shriveled and cracked.

"Here let me help you sit up." The nurse puffed up the pillows as she leant forward and gently lifted me up to a sitting position. She passed me a glass of water.

"Just small sips please."

It tasted like the most wonderful, refreshing water that had ever passed over my parched lips. It soothed my throat on the way down, then sat there lolling in my stomach. She replaced the oxygen mask and told me to keep it on for ten minutes.

The nurse was updating the notes on the end of the bed when I started retching up inside the oxygen mask. She swiftly removed it with one hand and replaced it with a cardboard bowl, just in time to catch the next load. Nurse Carter rubbed my back and spoke soothing, comforting words as I emptied the contents of my stomach. After a cleanup operation, I drifted off into a fitful sleep.

When I awoke three hours later, my son, Dale and his wife, Ellie, were sitting on plastic chairs. Dale reading the paper and Ellie engrossed in some dreary romance.

"Hey, dad. How are you feeling?"

"A little tired and my chest is tight and my throat is sore. Pour me a glass of that water on the side there please, son."

As he poured the water, Ellie slipped around to the other side of the bed and took my hands in hers. She was a good girl, from a good family, and was the best thing they ever happened to my son. The pair of them had given me two delightful grandchildren, Scott and Vanessa. 18 and 21 they were now, but I didn't get to see them as often as I'd liked. It was difficult and too much hassle me going to visit them. They were so busy with university and their hectic socials lived they only ever had time for me at Christmas and birthdays. Most family celebrations we would go for a meal somewhere, then they'd have to cut short the drinks to take my shattered body back to my lonely bungalow.

My son and his wife stayed for a couple of hours. I told them of the letter and my son agreed to escort me to the ceremony as long as I was well enough to attend. The few hours flew by with them, mostly making small talk and me drifting off every few mins. They visited every day until finally, after a week of bed rest and satisfactory blood tests, the doctors decided I could go home. Music to my ears. I'd had enough of all the fussing over, and I liked my independence. They spent several weeks fussing over me until I had to ask them to leave. I've always been an independent man, and I always said the day I can't do anything for myself is the day I want to leave this Earth.

During the week before the ceremony, my son and his wife stayed with me. Dale took my uniform and had it dry cleaned. His wife, Ellie, spent hours polishing my many medals and also my boots, which when she finished you could see your face in, and quite possibly eat your dinner off. They helped me pack my suitcase, all ready for the trip the next day.

I was nervous for a couple of reasons. The first being I hadn't flown for over 10 years. I had flown to Tunisia where my son had taken me to see the graves of my unfortunate comrades who sadly never came home. It was an upsetting experience knowing they were here, and I was in England. The last time I flew was when when I took my late wife, Megan, to Spain to celebrate our wedding anniversary. She passed away the year after, and I never felt the urge to do it again without the love of my life by my side. The second being I knew it was to be an emotional few days. Memories I had tried to bury long ago would be stirred, and I was worried my heart wouldn't be able to take it.

The ceremony was to take place on Sunday June 6th, the 77th anniversary of D-Day at Normandy, France. The day that many brave young men and women made up the allied invasion that stormed the beaches there. Since those times historians have estimated figures of around half a million lost their lives and many more injured. I wasn't a part of this operation. I was a Desert Rat and based in Africa until that fateful day, but they decided to include me and others in this remembrance.

We caught the train on Friday and the plan was to have a few days visiting various places my son thought would interest me. The train journey was very tiresome and quite distressing as I recounted horrors gone by as the hills and landscapes whizzed by the window. The day I had both been looking forward to and fretting about had arrived. I had no idea who I would see there. I did not know if any of my old company that I knew had survived those times were still with us today.

The place was a hive of people buzzing about. Soldiers from various regiments, old and new, gathered to pay their respects to the fallen and all those that contributed to the invasion they say swung the balance in the allied forces favour.

Camera crews scurried around unloading and setting up equipment, and news reporters flitted from person to person trying to drop on someone who had an amazing story to tell. We all did. It amazed me that all the ex-soldiers here today had survived the horrific times during WW2.

That was when Sky News approached me. It seems they had somehow acquired a list of people who were to be honoured here today, which they showed us. My son though he wasn't having any of it and brushed them aside and told them quite sternly that there was to be no interviews until after the ceremony.

They had set a stage up with what I can only describe as a pulpit for people to make speeches from at the forefront. Rows and rows of chairs lined up with military precision housed thousands of ex-service personnel.

One by one, the speaker called names out and streams of folk lined up to receive the medals presented. The day dragged on, and I could barely hear the speaker from my seat in the middle of so many people.

Eventually my name must have been called as my son took me by the arm and helped me in to a standing position. The speaker continued as I slowly made my way up front. Just before I got there an almighty cheer went up from the many gathered there. As I looked up, I could see the Queen herself now stood next to him, waving and smiling. I was so overwhelmed at the sight of her and by the day; I burst into tears. My son held me close and talked gently to me as I calmed down.

The next thing I'm up in front of Her Majesty the Queen. She thanked me for my service and bravery as she placed a medal around my neck and presented me with a new tie. I remember trying to force my body to a bow and smiling and exchanging a few words with her. To this day I can't recall what I said.

All I heard was my name, and that I was a very special man and the guest of honour. The newspapers later gave me the name of the luckiest man alive. Being as the day seemed to drag, the most important part for me flew by in a whirl.

The speaker recounted the day of which I was to be commemorated and my mind drifted away, way back to that day I'll never forget.

It was March 26th 1943 in southern Tunisia when the 12 tank convey I was in entered the Tebaga Gap with the aim to encircle the Axis forces. I was a trained gunner and the heat every day was unbearable inside, likely over 80 degrees. When we were engaged in combat the cordite of the shells, the smoke, the noise gave you a bad head which was just something else we had to put up with.

The eight tanks that had gotten through the gap were getting into battle formation as my tank rolled through. Unbeknownst to us some 88millimetre guns had been dug in and were waiting for us to get through before they opened fire. I learned much later that the attack had destroyed six of our tanks, mine being one of them.

Our Sherman tank suffered a direct hit and sadly upon my regaining consciousness saw it had killed all of my friends. I guess I was the lucky one. It engulfed the tank in flames and smoke, and so was I. What it left of my clothes was burning and burning me. I needed to get out. That's when I realised my left arm had been almost completely severed by shrapnel. The muscles and bone shot through. It was literally hanging on by a thread. I don't remember feeling any pain until later. I remember fumbling around half blind and deaf from the shelling. My damaged arm, I somehow swung onto the opposite shoulder and dragged myself through the open turret with my good arm. My only concern was to get out the burning vehicle and try to find some safety. I slid down the front of the tank on my belly then was immediately hit in the back three times by machine gun fire. Fortunately for me they were quite a way from me and so the bullets didn't penetrate me enough to kill me. I slid into a slit trench, then rolled around as best as I could to put out any flames and lay there staring up at the blazing sun. At some point I lost consciousness again, then I saw the moon shining way up high, then darkness overtook me once more until the next morning.

A prod from a kiwi's shovel roused me. He couldn't quite believe I was alive, never mind talk when I begged him for water. I remember sipping from his canteen while he gave me an injection, which again knocked me out.

I awoke in a hospital bed in Tripoli and there I stayed for a month until I was transferred to a better hospital in Cairo when I was more stable.

Five weeks after, the blasts and cordite of the shells still blinded me. I used to cry and scream the place down, thinking I would be blind for the rest of my days. The guys who had found me did a fantastic job of patching me up temporarily until I could get proper medical attention. I owe them my life and I've thanked them all for it on more than one occasion throughout the years. Daily, the nurses would come with a dish filled with saline solution and a spoon to clean my eyes. They would put the spoon under my eye and pop it out, dip it in the saline, then put it back in. Day by day my sight got better, I could see the outlines of doors and windows before gradually I could make out the nurses and doctors and other patients. I woke one morning and as if by a miracle they had restored my eyesight to almost normality. I was crying and screaming with elation now, not like before, with the fear of living my life blind. The amazing surgeons had miraculously saved my arm, although I would have some restrictive movement for the rest of my life. I was a mummy, bandaged from head to toe. I had suffered at least 80 percent burns all over my body, and particularly my face. I spent four months in that Egyptian hospital until they deemed me well enough to be transferred back to Blighty. 

I continued my recovery in a hospital in Bristol for several more weeks, until they transferred me closer to home at another hospital in Worcestershire, where I had six operations and where I also had several skin grafts. My hands and particularly my face have suffered the worst burns. After two attempts at rectifying the horrific mess that was once my face, I gave up. The pain was too unbearable for me to allow the surgeons to complete the task. I had several counselling sessions and chats about what to do about my face. I wasn't that bothered, but they had already been working on a mask that served a number of purposes. The mask would obviously hide my horrifically disfigured face and would also protect me from the harmful uv rays of the sun. I chose the mask, and I only wore it in public. I did used to venture out without it but couldn't put up with all the stares and pointing. I thought the mask would stop that. It didn't, although I guess it's not made it any worse. With or without it, I was still the centre of attention wherever I went.

My son had been doing my shopping and running errands for me, so I hadn't had to risk those yobs since my return and recovery. However, I felt I needed to stretch my legs and really fancied a cigar and a little drink to accompany it. I was hoping the rain that was steadily coming down would put the youths off, hanging around outside the shop.

I was out of luck. Now, where there used to be seven of eight kids, was now well at least double that. I walked head down, but as I got nearer, the kids all lined up either side of me in two rows. Panic was creeping in as they all raised their hands and linked with each other's, reaching out over my head. They had formed a guard of honour for me. I couldn't quite believe it. A woman's angelic voice swirled in the sky 'we'll meet again' and everyone picked up the song with the rain bouncing off the pavement. As I got to the end of the guard, they coaxed me back again, and this went on and on until I couldn't manage another round. The next day the same thing happened although the sun was shining. Over time, things settled down a bit. I got to know these kids, their parents, friends, and cousins. I told them my story, although they already knew it from the news. I eventually was persuaded to lose my mask. The kids had a really good stare. Some even asked if they could touch my scars or wear the mask. I obliged the braver ones. So many questions they asked and on a good day I could sit chatting with them for hours. The kids weren't bad kids, really, and all apologised and were ashamed at how they had treated me. They all called me Grandad Dixon. They'd be practically fighting over themselves to carry my shopping. Oh, how times had changed and for the better.

Now and again they surprise me with a new song and dance. It's all a bit too fast for my liking but they seem to enjoy themselves, living their lives and being happy. That's why sacrifices were made so long ago. After all these years, I felt like I was home again.