I got back from Scotland last night, having spent a few hours while I was there scanning some old photographs that my father has kept in cardboard boxes for decades.  Each of them has its own story, and this one is about a Bristol Beaufort torpedo bomber which blew up with my father in it when it taxied over a landmine as it was about to take off from a makeshift runway somewhere in East Africa in 1943, when he was 22.  Luckily for him (and me), its torpedoes had just been offloaded, or the outcome would probably have been very different.  As it was, he was able to pose for this photo (he's on the left) and it survived the journey to Scotland with many others which he took during the six years he was away from home, and I'm grateful that it has survived for all of the years since then.