lYEARS ago, my mother worked at a retirement home in Bedfordshire. She befriended a couple called the Ward-Hunts and occasionally went on holiday with them.

A few days ago, I was amazed to see a full-page obituary in The Times to Wing Commander Peter Ward-Hunt. It transpired that he had led a charmed life during the Second World War, flying scores of missions over Nazi Germany.

His wartime exploits had begun in 1940 when - in retaliation to the first bombs to drop on London - he led a raid over Berlin. Hitler was enraged and ordered an all-out attack on British cities. This is turn caused the eventual destruction of much of the Third Reich.

I met Peter Ward-Hunt once. He was a dapper little man with a pilot's moustache, quietly sipping a snifter on the lawn of his home. Our conversation was too brief to shed any light on his remarkable past.

It just goes to show that still waters invariably run deep.