The recent story commemorating 70 years since a plane returning from a mission in World War Two and crashing in Pogmoor has personal memories for me.
I was six years old and living in Winter Terrace at the time and whilst playing in the back garden saw what I thought was the sun’s reflections but were actually flames.
The plane then began to descend and a parachute appeared not far away.
It was not until after crashing into what was then a quarry that it was discovered the pilot had stayed at the controls deliberately to miss the local houses only yards away and his co-pilot landed near Broadway.
Only later was it realised how the heroic pilot had averted a possible disaster so close to my home.