My father was one of those people who never spoke about these things," says Catherine Gill. But in her home in Bishop Auckland, County Durham there is a drawer full of letters that speak volumes about his part in D-Day.

The letters are written by Capt Frank Baker in a jokey, light-hearted tone. They are as much about the food as the fighting, and are obviously intended to jolly up the spirits of his wife back at home.

His wife, Kathleen, back home in Stockton, was looking after Catherine, their four-year-old daughter, and their baby Shaun. Shaun was just five-months-old when his 34-year-old father landed on Juno Beach.

In the letters, Capt Baker tells Kathleen of a grand life afloat in the days leading up to D-Day.

"It seemed so much like a dream on the ship whilst we were anchored, " he wrote on July 2. "Brilliant sunshine, plenty of good food and cigarettes and a most comfortable cabin. It was hard to realise we were going to take part in the greatest thing ever in a matter of hours."

Then to the beaches, landing in the second wave behind the Canadians. He admits the sea was very rough, but everything else sounds like a doddle.

"We got to the beaches OK and it was like a regatta. We were able to amble off without any interference at all. On the way we made ourselves a cup of tea.

Just like a picnic, it was.

"We picked up 13 Jerries on the way.

They just gave themselves up at the sight of us - thank heaven!"

They reached a "sinister" village and decided to hole up for the night in some deserted German trenches - but even on DDay, there was still time to think about D+1 Day's breakfast.

"On the evening of the 6th we got our water bottles filled up at the vicarage in the nearby village and this is what I made my porridge with on the 7th, " he wrote. "I thought the porridge had a peculiar taste but quite tasty nevertheless. I only discovered later on in the morning when I was going to have a drink of water from my bottle that it was cider!"

Yet it wasn't quite a picnic.

"I'll never forget those first three nights, " wrote Frank, who died in 1992 after a career as a chartered surveyor in Stockton. "I've never been through such terrific air raids. I thought my hair would have turned grey!

We had bombs all around us. . . Just at first light on the second morning we thought a Spitfire was coming along, but it turned out to be a German fighter. And did he strafe us! He flew just over our heads machine gunning, but nobody was hit at all."

And yet on D+2 Day, Frank had "a narrow squeak". In a letter dated June 15 written to his parents he said: "The angels must have been looking after me. . .

"Just as we were turning a corner a machine gun opened out on us and started firing to our backs (the dirty dogs). I got a clip through the lobe of my right ear and another bullet singed my scalp. . .

"The engine and radiator and wireless (on the armoured truck) gave up just as we reached our own troops. I was dropping quite a lot of blood, but the Medical soon came and dressed me up. I rested for a couple of days. It was only a flesh wound and there is practically no sign of it now. Anyhow, don't worry and don't tell Kathleen."

Indeed, Frank doesn't tell Kathleen anything about being millimetres from death.

His last letter of the saved sequence is dated July 2 and suggests that life is "grand" - his favourite word.

"I'll make your mouth water now, " he says. "We got hold of about three pints of cream yesterday and 3lbs of real fresh better. We had the cream over some Christmas pudding. It was grand, cream swimming all over the place."

"And what are you looking like, darling?" he asks.

"What's all this about slimming? Your photo doesn't seem to indicate you need any. Or doesn't it show enough of you? Never mind, I'll be seeing you sometime.

This cannot go on forever. . ."