The waiting was almost over. It had been worse sitting in port. Once the journey had begun the mood had lifted and the tension dropped. People had broken into song below deck, back slapping comradeship.

It had been a smooth journey, give or take a few bumps here and there. We had seen worse, no doubt about it.

I remember the sickness on the way over. So many grown men puking their guts up, sick with terror. You could smell fear vibrating in the air. The mood was different now. Many had been left behind, but the thought only made us straighten our backs and raise our chins in defiance.

The fittest were out on deck, watching the coastline hungrily. Perhaps it felt like centuries, but it still felt like home.

“Cigarette? Bloody hell, a cigar!”

We were all avoiding the thought of those waiting for us. Those who may or may not be waiting for us. So we sang and cracked jokes until our jaws ached and our lungs gave out. We slept everywhere, used not only to the noise, but the discomfort and pain.

No one looked back over the water, back towards France, back towards our shame. Instead we looked forward, towards our pride.

We docked in the early morning. Impatiently we waited inside, but we could hear the sounds. The shouting and cheering sparked tears in our eyes.

Not ashamed to cry any longer we turned to face the nation, waiting with pride.