Veteran who lied about age to join up tells of ‘relief' at learning war was over
A 99-year-old veteran who fought in the Normandy campaign after lying about his age has spoken of his 'relief' at learning the war in Europe had come to an end.
Born in London in 1925, Donald Turrell was just 17 when he enlisted in the Army having forged a letter from his parents.
'I did lie about my age. I pushed it up a bit, gave all the right answers, and I was in. I was happy,' he said.
'I was 17. I told them I was 18. I wrote a letter out saying that 'To whom it my concern, the bearer of this letter is my son, Donald Turrell blah, blah, blah'.'
He explained he had always wanted to be a soldier and that like 'all the young lads' he had wanted to play his part in defending his country.
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He joined the Cameronians (Scottish Rifles) and in the ensuing months was stationed at various places around the UK, including Bury St Edmunds, Newquay, Newcastle and Fort William in the Scottish Highlands.
His battalion crossed over to France in June 1944 in the days following D-Day, and Mr Turrell landed on Sword beach before taking part in fierce fighting against occupying German troops.
The veteran described feeling 'excited and apprehensive' during the crossing, and said his 'introduction' to the war was seeing bodies from earlier fighting washing back up on the beach as he landed.
His war came to an end a few weeks later on July 10, when he was seriously injured during fighting near the town of Eterville, and later medically discharged.
The 99-year-old recalled that his unit had been fighting a group of Germans who he said had been 'leading' them to an area of woodland, before finding themselves pinned down by heavy fire.
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'They put up a heavy barrage of bullets, machine guns, mortars and everything,' he recalled.
'We were static. When all that's going on, you're not looking around seeing where it's coming from.
'You keep down (in a) foetal position, and that's when I got walloped on the left side.'
He explained that using his rifle as a crutch he had 'staggered' back to platoon headquarters where 'carriers' were sent to evacuate them.
He continued: 'And while we were laying on the carriers, more shells came down and hit us there.
'One driver I knew … went up in the air. Well he was dead before he hit the ground. And that was another shock.
'I'm waiting for the next one to come for me, but no, I said to the driver – his name was Cameron – 'Let's get out of here''.
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He added: 'And that put me out of the Army. That was my Army career gone.'
Mr Turrell spoke movingly of the close friends he lost during the campaign, some of whom he buried in the field, and who are now buried in Commonwealth War cemeteries on the continent.
The war also claimed his older brother Leslie, who had been a telegraphist on HMS Penelope and died when she was sunk off the Italian coast near Naples in February 1944.
The veteran has since been out to visit his friends' graves with the aid of the Taxi Charity for Military Veterans, and said he hopes to return to Scotland with the charity later this year.
As well as visiting sites linked to his war service, including the Cameronian barracks in Hamilton, he said he wants to see places associated with his Scottish mother.
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'My mother came from Scotland', he explained.
'She came from Dunfermline, and she always told me about how Scotland is, and there is a photograph in a family somewhere where she's doing the Highland fling.
'I'd like to go up there and see how she lived and all that, and Scotland itself.'
Asked about his memories of the original VE Day in 1945, the 99-year-old said with a chuckle: 'I was in a pub, naturally'.
'I never heard a Churchill speech or anything, but I knew the war was over.
'So I met all the local lads who were in my class, and those who were on leave, etc and we had a damned good time.
'But I wasn't going to go up to London to Trafalgar Square because I was on crutches.
'I'd been wounded and I'd been pushed and shoved about, so I stayed local and (had a) really good time.'
He added: 'It was a relief, because I was alive.'
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Balliana warns this trend is dangerous: lower prices make it harder for ethical breeders to invest the time, care, and expertise that these complex animals require. 'This should never be about volume,' she says. 'The well-being of the dog must always come first.' Balliana has lived with Czechoslovakian wolfdogs since 2005 and has been breeding them since 2017, after years of collaboration with both Italian and international breeders. A trainer and show handler, she first encountered the breed as an eighteen-year-old visitor at a dog show, and was instantly captivated by its wolf-like appearance, atavistic behavior, and natural indocility. 'I fell in love at first sight,' she says. After years of study and saving, she purchased her first dog—an infertile female—and never looked back. 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Drawn to the breed for its wild appearance and primitive nature, she values the way it preserves behavioral traits close to its wolf ancestors. 'They belong in nature,' she says, 'and that's where I feel at home, too.' The dogs' independence and sensitivity mirror her own rhythms. With over 40,000 followers on Instagram, Imberti now uses social media to educate others about the breed—its beauty, its challenges, and the deep responsibility it requires. She hopes one day to turn that platform into a full-time pursuit, allowing her to spend more time with her animals while making a positive impact on how the breed is understood. Harris and others in the wolfdog business say owners are drawn to these breeds for their impressive size and ferocious reputation and are often taken with the idea of domesticating something powerful, wild, and free. 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Imberti works early morning and night shifts at a textile factory, rising at 4 a.m. to make time for her dogs. Drawn to the breed for its wild appearance and primitive nature, she values the way it preserves behavioral traits close to its wolf ancestors. 'They belong in nature,' she says, 'and that's where I feel at home, too.' The dogs' independence and sensitivity mirror her own rhythms. With over 40,000 followers on Instagram, Imberti now uses social media to educate others about the breed—its beauty, its challenges, and the deep responsibility it requires. She hopes one day to turn that platform into a full-time pursuit, allowing her to spend more time with her animals while making a positive impact on how the breed is understood. Worse, Harris says, unlike other breeds, wolfdogs often 'lack an affinity toward humans.' Even when well trained, they will often seek out opportunities to assert themselves as leader of the pack. 'They don't want to be pets,' she says. Camatta's wolfdog has picked up a wolf's scent in the Cesari works with a Czechoslovakian wolfdog in northern Italy in February 2025. Initially drawn to the breed for its striking resemblance to the wolf, Cesari soon became captivated by its complex behavior and subtle communication. Specializing in canine education, she helps owners better understand their dogs—especially wolfdogs—by teaching them how to read body language and respond appropriately to everyday behavioral challenges. Cesari also trains dogs in scent-based disciplines such as mantrailing, which harnesses the animal's powerful sense of smell to follow human or canine scent trails, both for recreation and real-world search operations. In addition, she is preparing for certification in HRDD (Human Remains Detection Dog) work, aiming to apply her skills in forensic contexts. These fields, she says, are particularly well-suited to the highly sensitive and olfactory-driven nature of the Czechoslovakian wolfdog. Alessio Camatta, a Czechoslovakian wolfdog breeder, works to protect the genetic integrity of the breed at his facility in northern Italy in February 2025. What began as a personal search for a more rustic and resilient companion after the early loss of his German shepherd evolved into a scientific commitment to responsible breeding. Using a zootechnical approach, Camatta aims to balance biological health—such as minimizing inbreeding and preserving genetic diversity—with the breed's distinctive physical and behavioral traits. Alongside his colleague Erica, he focuses on the critical first weeks of a puppy's life, shaping temperament through structured stimulation and individualized care. Nutrition is also guided by scientific principles, in collaboration with specialists in animal dietetics. Driving down the gravel logging roads that crisscross the forests near Slovenia's border with Italy, Tilen Hvala keeps a sharp eye out for the telltale signs of wolves. In 2023, Hvala became one of just a handful of researchers across the continent to successfully trap and collar a wolf— in this case, six-month-old Jakob, whose movements were tracked by the Slovenian Forest Service as part of the Life Wolfalps EU Project. Just over a hundred wolves live in the small European country today, a major victory after facing near-extinction in the 1990s. 'Sometimes I wonder, when I'm driving on this kind of road, how many times they are just looking out of the trees,' says Hvala, a biologist with the Slovenian Forest Service. Sure enough, we soon come upon a wolf pack's resting place from the night before—matted leaves surrounded by scat and bones just a few hundred feet from a logging road. Tracking data is instrumental to better understanding how the area's wolf packs behave and use the landscape. It can also reveal where hybridization occurs. 'If you have high mortality rates, unstable packs and, at the same time, a lot of dogs in the environment, shit happens,' says Miha Krofel, a Slovenian wolf researcher working with the EU project. Most wild hybridization occurs in areas where wolf packs are disrupted, usually by hunting or poaching, and female wolves go searching for a new breeding partner. Federica Merisio, a longtime enthusiast of the Czechoslovakian wolfdog, shares a quiet moment with her dogs Fides and Verbena—known as Pippi—at home in northern Italy. For the past ten years, Merisio has been immersed in the world of this extraordinary breed, realizing her dream of owning her first wolfdog nine years ago. What draws her in is not just their striking appearance, but their interior world—their sharp intelligence, emotional clarity, and instinct-driven behavior. 'They are victims of their own instinct,' she says. 'But that's their greatest wonder.' Merisio believes that to truly understand a wolfdog, you must learn to observe—reading the smallest shifts in body language and energy. 'You can't just watch them,' she says. 'You have to feel them vibrate in your bones.' Living with the breed is a lifelong challenge in emotional and behavioral attunement—'too wolfish to be dogs, too dogish to be wolves.' With her two females, she continues to train in utility and defense work, a practice that strengthens their bond and mutual trust. 'Having a Czechoslovakian wolfdog means embracing not only its wild appearance,' Merisio says, 'but also falling in love with the instincts that make it so unique—and never wanting to live without them.' It was such circumstances that likely produced Slovenia's first recorded hybrid, a large, black animal that entered the country near the Italian border in 2021. In response, Slovenia took no chances, killing the animal and its offspring, save one that escaped back over the border. In neighboring Italy and Croatia—where escaped, feral, and unmanaged dogs are a much more common phenomenon—wild hybridization is a much more serious problem. In some parts of Italy, more than 70 percent of wolves have dog DNA, according to research by Sapienza University in Rome. In Dalmatia, a narrow strip of land on Croatia's Adriatic coastline, the rate is as much as 80 percent, says Tomaz Skrbinsek, a researcher at the University of Ljubljana in Slovenia. There, a so-called 'hybrid swarm' has formed after wolves colonized war-torn areas vacated in the 1990s and encountered abandoned strays. With 30 percent wolf DNA, Czechoslovakian wolf dogs retain subtle body language and movement patterns that often confuse domestic dogs. Unlike most companion breeds, wolfdogs tend to move with quiet confidence, make prolonged eye contact, and communicate in ways closer to their wild ancestors—signals that are frequently misread as threatening. 'They walk differently, they look differently,' says breeder Alessio Camatta. 'Other dogs don't know how to interpret them, and that can lead to trouble.' As a result, wolfdogs are sometimes met with fear or aggression in public spaces, making socialization and early conditioning critical. For owners, it means constant awareness—and sometimes, physical risk. Camatta and others warn that without proper training and understanding, these misunderstood signals can turn everyday walks into confrontations. In places like Dalmatia, where hybrids are not yet being tracked with radio collars, Skrbinsek worries hybridization could lead to animals that are more comfortable with humans and urban environments. That, in turn, could erode support for protecting wolves from hunting and encouraging their return. 'If you have these behaviors, these traits, in a wild animal that is wolf-like, that could spell disaster for wolf conservation,' he says. What is a wolf, really? Hybrids also raise difficult ethical questions, such as how to define what makes a 'natural' wolf. With millennia of crossbreeding between wolves, domestic dogs, and other canids like jackals, there is no standard definition for how much foreign DNA makes a wolf no longer a wolf. Some conservationists view any mixture as a symbol of 'pollution' in a once pure species. 'It's us humans that have caused that,' says Luigi Boitani, a zoologist at the Sapienza University of Rome and one of Europe's main experts on hybridization. 'It's like an extinction. It's our responsibility to do something.' But it's not known if hybridization really does produce worrying behaviors, such as fearlessness around people, or if hybrids crowd out gray wolves from their native habitat. Sara Meloni reveals the fresh puncture wounds from a recent dog attack, alongside tattoos of wolfdogs inked across her skin. Just days earlier, she and her Czechoslovakian wolfdog, Era, were attacked by a Labrador—one of several incidents she encountered in recent months. With 30 percent wolf DNA, Era doesn't move like most domestic dogs. Her head is often held high, her posture confident but composed, and her movements are measured—more observant than playful, more intentional than reactive. 'She walks through the world differently,' Meloni says. 'With a presence that says she knows exactly who she is—and that unsettles other dogs.' While this quiet confidence can provoke fear or aggression in unfamiliar animals, it also reflects the depth of their bond. The tattoos on Meloni's legs are more than symbols of admiration—they are markers of a shared journey built on trust, mutual respect, and an unwavering sense of loyalty to an animal that, in walking bravely beside her, has helped her become more of herself. Sara Meloni and her Czechoslovakian wolfdog, Era, photographed together in Costa di Mezzate, Italy, in February 2025. For the past five years, the two have moved through life as a tightly bonded pair—one human, one animal, both shaped by each other. With 30 percent wolf DNA, Era is sensitive, intelligent, and instinct-driven, requiring trust rather than training, presence rather than control. 'She changed me,' Meloni says. 'Not for myself, but for her.' Their relationship is built on mutual respect, where emotional safety flows both ways. Era's quiet confidence is mirrored in Sara's stillness; their connection is visible not just in touch, but in the space between them—a recognition of two beings who have chosen each other completely. 'It is really critical that we get this knowledge,' says Krofel, the Slovenian scientist. Without it, he says, it's hard to convince policymakers to cull hybrid wolves, or implement other measures to prevent their spread. For now, without a clear definition of what makes a hybrid, strange paradoxes have arisen. In Italy, a 96 percent wolf hybrid can be returned to its owner, but a similar hybrid in the wild, exhibiting all the behaviors of a wolf, may well be selected for a cull. These paradoxes bother researchers, too, many of whom advocate for an end to the wolfdog trade worldwide. 'I would personally ban the market, the production of this breed,' says Salvatori. For Boitani, breeding new hybrid pets simply 'doesn't make sense.' 'Humans already made the dog [through interbreeding] 10,000 years ago. Why do you want to do it again? Really, it's like playing God.' But wolfdog advocates assert the animals still have a right to live. 'These animals didn't choose to be bred,' says Harris, of the Canadian sanctuary. 'I don't think trying to cull them all is a very fair way to go about it.' At least for now, wolfdog advocates and conservationists agree on one thing—humans must improve how they handle both domesticated and wild wolfdogs. 'Education will be the key,' says Gaarde. 'What we don't understand we try to control,' he says, 'and what we can't control, we try to destroy.' Sara Meloni walks with her Czechoslovakian wolfdog, Era, through the streets of northern Italy in February 2025. With 30 percent wolf DNA, the breed moves differently—calm, focused, and highly attuned to its surroundings. 'When you build a real relationship with them, you become part of their pack,' Meloni says. 'And that bond gives them the confidence to be fully themselves.' But that confidence, expressed through subtle, wolf-like body language, often triggers misunderstandings with other dogs. In recent months, Meloni and Era have been attacked several times, including one incident that left her with bite wounds while trying to protect her dog. Still, she remains committed to the quiet strength of their connection. 'She doesn't just walk beside me—she walks with purpose,' Meloni says. 'Because she knows who she is. And she knows I do too.'
