Daughter shares father's 'incredible' handwritten account of D-Day invasion discovered after his death

On the 80th anniversary of D-Day, the daughter of a Leicestershire veteran - one of the first to land on the beaches of Normandy - is sharing her father's first-hand account of the day that would change the course of history. Anna Draper says her father was "very proud" to have been "born and bred" in Barrow-upon-Soar and many in the village may know him as the man who carved the village sign out of wood.

Tom Rennocks was a 20-year-old gunner in a DD tank - nicknamed 'Donald Duck tanks' for their amphibious nature - when the Allied forces launched their invasion of Nazi-occupied France on June 6, 1944. Former gunner Rennocks died in 2001 but, years later, Anna found amongst her father's things a handwritten record of the events of the day.

This is his story in his own words.

READ MORE: Leicestershire veteran describes 'absolute chaos' of D-Day landing

It was about mid afternoon [on June 3rd] when we loaded our Duplex Drive Sherman tanks at Fawley Wood, Southampton Water. The Duplex drive tanks were to be one of the secret weapons of the D-Day invasion.

We had been "wired in" during the past 3 months waterproofing with Bostic. The craft that were going to ship us over were known as LCT (Landing Craft Tank). Basically a flat-bottomed, 3-sided iron box designed to take 6 tanks, which was loaded and exited via a massive ramp door at the bow.

The flat bottom meant that in a heavy sea, or even a slight swell, the craft would first be lifted up, then dropped back down with tremendous force. There was no provision for comfort for the tank crews, just to eat and rest among the tanks which were secured to the craft with heavy chains.

On the 4th of June we were supposed to have taken up our position off the French coast in preparation for the attack on June 5th, but as everyone now knows, D-Day was delayed for 24 hours due to the bad weather. When we were informed of this it was total dismay as many of the troops, including myself, were already ill, suffering from violent sea sickness.

This continued even as we waited in the relatively calmer waters beyond The Solent. I remember the wretchedness of sea sickness. All the traces of what I had eaten had long gone, and you don't want to eat any food but you try something just to sustain yourself.

Unfortunately even the provided cube of chocolate or boiled sweet would immediately make you retch. My misery was complete... and now another 24 hours of it!

"How can an operation such as this succeed when all around is sickness?" I thought to myself. Many of the hardened crew of sailors aboard had even succumbed. The few tank men who were unaffected had very little sympathy for their now frail colleagues, who were "fairies".

During the next day, June 5th, we took up our position as we waited in the darkness off the French coast. Without sleep, or even rest and still feeling very sick, I decided to mash (brew) some tea. There really seemed little point as I knew that, like the issued rum ration, it would immediately come back.

I needed something to do so I stumbled past the groaning tanks to the bow, where some primus type stoves had been set up for the purpose. In the darkness and loneliness, I filled my mess tin, primed the stove and lit a match. A second later the whole thing seemed to blow up and catch fire, and from the blackness, suddenly everywhere became illuminated .

A captain's voice from the bridge, bellowed words to the effect of "catch that man! Get him! Shoot him!" I had the presence of mind to quickly invert my mess tin, dousing the flames and luckily I was saved. My invasion was nearly over before it had begun.

What seemed not long after that incident, the tank crews who had tried to rest were roused. Some had breakfast of sorts. From the small ship's galley below (for the sailors only) came the smell of fried bacon, a final reminder of the nausea and it was time to vomit once more, although there was still nothing left to fetch up.

Last minute checks to see everything was in order. As gunner I checked to see if the release catches for the 75mm main armament shells were operating freely. Check outside - nothing must foul the canvas screen and stop it inflating. Deck free of loose equipment and ropes all safe and stowed away, chains released.

Dawn was beginning to break with what appeared to be a slightly calmer sea. It was still questionable as to whether the DDtanks would launch as planned.

The coast of France could been seen ahead like a low cloud on the horizon. All around us was a vast armada. It was awe inspiring to know that the whole might of the allied navies was at hand to get us ashore.

At 6am the naval bombardment started and at the same time the roar of our bombers going overhead in to their targets. As shell after shell went home, the shore erupted in a mass of smoke and flame.

The cruiser Belfast was close at hand with its big guns trained on special targets. Rocket launchers, never seen before, were mounted on the LCTs near to us - the fire power was spectacular, the noise deafening.

At about 6.30am we took up the positions in our tanks. I settled into the gunner's seat in the turret, with wireless op/loader to my left of the 75mm gun. The tank commander was in the hatch to my rear and the driver and co-driver below at the front. The canvas screen had been raised, engines started and each tank in turn crept slowly forwards towards the ramp which had been lowered into the water with a crash.

We gently eased down the 45 degree ramp in 1st gear and slid into the rough sea and floated clear, engaged propellers and joined the other tanks so we looked like a small floatilla of canvas boats making 4 knots towards the shore. Due the bad conditions, we had been launched about 400 yards from the shore instead of the intended 2 miles but we were battling along, with the waves almost at the top of the screen.

I remember as I looked ahead, with a background of smoke, seeing the tide was out on a wide sandy beach. I could see the sea defences - an array of iron and wooden poles with explosives attached and hedgehogs: roughly welded structures of iron spread around. In the middle of all this, a few brave frogmen could be seen dismantling and clearing paths through.

"H-Hour" signified the hour at which the assault infantry were due to touch down on shore and this had been set for 7.25 am. Our D-D tanks were due in at H minus 5 minutes (i.e 7.20am). Our tank commander Capt Monckton, was recce officer for the squadron, so our own tank's role would be to lead from the beach when cleared.

We had just reached the waterline, disengaged the 2 propellors, half deflated the screen and engaged the drive to the tracks when the tank seemed to slide into a a submerged crater of soft sand and water. We were stuck! Other "Funnies" (modified tanks) were now coming ashore and a Royal Engineer's Sherman with a bullnose blade was summoned to help us.

Being the best swimmer in the crew, I had the job of diving under the water to find the eye to connect up the heavy steel tow rope. I remember how cold the water was as I submerged and struggled with inserting the bolt. We desperately didn't want to lose our tank , but with revving engines and flailing tracks both our tank and the recovery tank sank further into the soft sand.

As the sea began washing over our distressed tank, I was told to take another dive and release the tow rope. While holding my breath, I again struggled with the large bolt underwater and, in the nick of time, I managed to release it just avoiding the recovery tank from joining us in the watery hole. The Royal Engineers commander thanked us and went on his way to push away more hedgehogs and clear the route.

As our tank was being quickly submerged by the incoming tide, there was no time to recover any kit or anything. As our tank was meant to be taking the lead, quickly our recce officer commander, said "cheerio" as he needed to find another tank (he would replace its commander, maybe a troop corporal) and head off inland. The four of us left behind were now a tank crew without a tank, with no where to go nor anyone to tell us what to do.

We looked around to find what seemed a relatively safe spot in the sand dunes near the back of the beach and for the next 13 hours we watched the remainder of the biggest invasion spectacular of all time as it unfolded. All the misery of the sea sickness had now disappeared. It was quickly replaced by the misery of being cold and in wet clothes, but now we were just thankful to be safely ashore on Gold Beach.

One of the first things we noticed as we found refuge, close-by was a massive concrete blockhouse. This had been destroyed, not by the naval barrage, but by the tank which swam in alongside us. Directly in front of where we landed, the tank had fired about 5 rounds of HE through the blockhouse apertures, killing all manning it.

The large gun in the blockhouse did not offer a shot at us as we came ashore. On closer inspection it was discovered that the gun could only fire enfilade (sideways along the shore) and luckily for us it could not engage a front target. Shortly after knocking the blockhouse out, that tank too had joined ours in the soft sand, and like us the crew had abandoned.

By now, much of the first beach assault wave had left via paths cleared by the flails. The rest of our squadron had formed and had moved off in to the distance along with their infantry, The Green Howards 6th Battalion.

Looking in front of us from our encampment we could see the flotsam from the first attack spreading out along the beach. Two Churchill tanks were burning, three DD tanks were emerging once more as the tide ebbed, there were disabled LCTs slewed at crazy angles and the bodies of the infantrymen who were washed off the guide ropes as they tried to wade ashore.

It was encouraging to see the amount and variety of heavy guns that were now landing and driving away from the beach. When it was possible to climb aboard our stricken tank, we found there was little to salvage.

The commander had left behind two bottles of Johnnie Walker and we found it was possible to salvage the compo rations which were in a watertight box. This provided us with a meal of soup and hard biscuits washed down with the Johnnie Walker.

Our wireless op had brought ashore a notebook and envelope. He wrote a quick letter and addressed the envelope to his mother in Bristol. He spotted a sailor about to return to England who duly posted it as soon as he arrived back. It must have been the first letter, uncensored and received next day. It didn't give any indication or secrets away to where we were - as yet WE didn't know where we were, but we just assumed we were somewhere in France.

Now seeing the scene from the onlookers point of view, the second wave was about to come in and this also was spectacular. Suddenly it appeared, boats, ships, vessels of all descriptions were coming in, bringing their cargoes of men, arms and equipment as near to the shore as the craft would allow.

There were crashes and bangs as boats rammed into the ones left behind in the first wave, adding to what seemed to be utter chaos. However, all this must have been calculated for, as a constant flow of tanks, lorries, heavy artillery and arms streamed away from the beach.

As onlookers we could only assume that our forward tanks must be going well enough to provide a beachhead inland, with space for all that was landing. As dusk began to fall, we, the stragglers, were marched to a field about half a mile inland. We were given some food and I was immediately put on guard duty.

There was an eerie feeling about being on foreign soil which was occupied only a few hours earlier by the enemy. Maybe they had had families there or they could have been married to French girls who were still around. A solitary Meschersmitt came over while I was doing my guard duty - the only one seen all day.

As I lay down to rest my weary bones and reflect on the amazing past 60 hours, we received news of the regiment's progress. They had reached the objective just short of Bayeux.

The city was captured early next day D +1. The other news received was of the casualties.

We had lost many tanks and several crews including a Somerset lad - a friend of mine who had joined up on the same day. A marvellous pianist, we would take him to dances where he would play during the interval. Even the band would come back to the stage just to listen.

As I lay beneath the trees that night, I thought about the awfulness - I would never again see Albert Matthews aged 20. He was to be the first of many.