Peter had been saddened to discover that one of the Polish pilots he’d come to know and like during his time at RAF Cliffe had been badly injured during a dogfight over Holland and was now recuperating at the sanatorium on the Cliffe estate. When he’d gone to see him, the large Pole had bellowed a delighted welcome and struggled from his seat to stand on his prosthetic legs to give him one of his famous bear hugs and enthusiastically plant smacking kisses on his cheeks.

Wing Commander Baron Stanislaw Kowalcyzk – or Stan as everyone called him – was a larger-than-life character who possessed a soft heart and generous soul. He cried easily and got emotional about everything except his own plight, and endeared himself to everyone he met. When he’d been in action, he’d had to cram his great body and long legs into the cockpit of his Spitfire – which was made for someone half the size – and would often yell ‘Chocks away,’ and be roaring down the runway seconds later to a whoop of sheer joy.

On his return to base, it had always taken two men to unplug him from the cockpit, and four to carry him out of the bar at the end of titanic drinking sessions and deliver him to his hut.

It seemed the loss of both his legs hadn’t dented his humour or tamed his rather gung-ho attitude to life in general. As far as he was concerned, he’d been blessed, for he was still alive to drink copiously and enjoy the company of beautiful women. He loved women – and they were drawn to him like bees to nectar.

They had talked for hours on that first visit, and Peter had made a point of going to see him every day to make sure he really was following doctor’s orders and not drinking. It was a forlorn hope, for Stan enjoyed his vodka and would bribe the orderlies to bring some in. Peter had taken Rita to see him, and he’d completely charmed her, so on his next visit Peter had asked him to be his best man.

Stanislaw had burst into predictable tears and hugged him so hard Peter could have sworn he’d heard his ribs creaking under the strain. The bachelor night had been riotous, with Stan taking centre stage at the Crown and proceeding to drink everyone under the table, until he’d had to be poured into a taxi. It had taken three days for Peter to get over it, but Stan was as bright and cheerful the next day as he always was, and had returned to the Crown to continue his outrageous flirting with the most receptive Gloria.

They’d hired a taxi to get them to the church in plenty of time, and as it pulled into the large car park, Stan looked up at the red-brick Victorian building and grimaced. ‘Why the English build such ugly things? In Poland we make our basilica beautiful with gold and icons and mosaics.’