NOBODY who attended a repatriation will ever forget the experience.

They happened on ordinary days in an ordinary shopping street thronged by ordinary people, but the ordinariness evaporated as the time approached when the cortege would pass.

Crowds began to line the pavements. People talked quietly to one another. Parents murmured to children, reminding them to be respectful.

Families and friends of the dead were deferentially ushered to their places. Spaces were made for military veterans, especially older ones, so their view would be unimpeded.

Long before the leading vehicle of the cortege came into view, heading from Lyneham, shops would fall silent and mostly empty. The occasional customer, caught by surprise, would put goods back on a shelf and either go outside or wait until the cars had passed before taking their items to a cash register.

Hearses passed slowly. Sometimes there would be one, sometimes two and sometimes, unbearably, three or more.

Each contained a single coffin draped in a Union Jack and containing a life partner, a parent, a child, a sibling, a friend.

Among the bereaved, the older ones usually stood quietly, either weeping or refusing to be seen weeping.

Some of the younger ones rushed forward to place flowers on hearses, and sometimes to briefly press their hands against the glass sides.

The only sounds were grief, the discreet click of cameras and the tolling of the church bell.