Seventy-five years ago, my local pub was the scene of a lethal gunfight. Southern England had been turned into the largest armed camp in the history of the world, as 2 million men, predominantly British, American, and Canadian, massed for the Normandy landings.

You can’t gather so many young men together without tensions. One night, a confrontation between American soldiers and military police in the village where I live, Kingsclere in Hampshire, led to a prolonged exchange of gunfire which left two GIs dead along with the pub landlady, who was hit by a ricochet while she picked up empty glasses.

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