John Turner, better known as Jack, was born in February 1919, just 3 months after the end of World War One. The eldest of 8 siblings, he grew up in the small Welsh village of Abercrave in the Swansea Valley, attending the local school and helping his Dad look after the pit ponies for the local mine. Jack stayed in Abercrave until his late teens before heading East, ending up in Maidenhead where he found a job working for Mr Cox in his shop. When World War Two began, Jack volunteered to serve, ending up in the 52nd East Lancashire Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment. Unfortunately, he spent much of his early war experience walking backwards, being involved in the retreats at Dunkirk, Crete and Egypt before finally his luck (and Britain's) changed and he got to move in the right direction for once at El-Alamein and during the Italian campaign. He ended the war teaching ‘squaddies’ to drive trucks in North Wales where he met his future wife, Peggy. Married in 1945, Jack returned to work for several years in Mr Cox's shop before moving to Harris Intertype in the 1960s where he remained until his retirement in the 1984. Never one for sitting around, Jack took a short term job driving a minibus for a local company. That short term contract went on and on until, in his 80s, he was forced to stop due to failing eyesight. Since then Jack remained active in both mind and body, and latterly enjoyed regular trips to St Dunstan's in Brighton as well as life at Lady Elizabeth House. So that is a summary of Jack's life. However, you cannot judge the quality of a man's life by his deeds, but more by the manner in which he lived. And this is where Jack excelled. From as early as anyone can remember, Jack would never choose to do something because it was right for him, but always because it was the right thing to do. It is the stories of how he put others first that everyone can recall, whether that be standing up to his neck in the sea at Dunkirk for hours helping others into boats or going back to check on a badly wounded friend during a hell-for-leather retreat. And he continued to live in that vane after the war, whether that be looking out for people that worked for him, organising a local football team or taking on the responsibilities of a carer for Peggy, even when he was approaching ninety himself and practically blind. But it should be remembered that he never begrudged the time he gave to others. True, he never quite shook of his Welsh roots in terms of his occasionally pessimistic outlook for his own luck but with others, he always had a smile, a story and quite often a song (another throwback to Wales I suspect) to entertain. He loved his friends and family – nobody can remember him ever meeting someone and him not genuinely being happy to see them – and you always felt the better for seeing him and sad when it was time to part. If you close your eyes, it is easy to see his smile and hear his wicked laugh. Jack is the blueprint for what a brother, a father, a grandfather, a great-grandfather and a friend should be. We can’t imagine that there is anyone who was lucky enough to know him that would have a bad word to say about him and who could fail to raise a smile about something he did. Jack was a good man, who lived a good, long and happy life and we are all richer for having had him be part of ours.