Ahead of next week’s Munich memorial service, I have mixed emotions.

I want to go but at the same time I don’t want to go. I hope people can understand that. It will be an emotional, difficult day for me.

But I will be there because I feel I should be there. I should be there on behalf of the people I was lucky enough to play with and who sadly and tragically never walked away from that plane or, in the case of dear Duncan Edwards, never left that hospital in Munich.

Harry Gregg recalled the Munich Air Disaster 60 years on from the tragic plane crash

I am not trying to play the nice guy here but when we gather together in Manchester, I hope we remember not just those wonderful young footballers who lost their lives, but every single person who was on that plane.

The staff, crew, journalists and members of the public who died all had mummies and daddies too, remember. Their loss was equally tragic and their absence has been felt just as keenly and acutely by those who loved them over the years. If I close my eyes, I can still recall every detail of what happened that day in Germany.

My God, I wish I couldn’t. But I remember where everybody was sitting and what many of the boys said before we tried to take off in the snow for the third time.

I will not retell that story today, there is no need.

Bill Foulkes (left) and Gregg (right) survey the crash scene following the Munich Air Disaster

Over the years, I have had some troubles dealing with it. Survivor’s guilt is what they call it, I believe. For many years I really did struggle even to face the families of some of my team-mates who died.

Why them? Why not me?

I will be honest to say today that I have moved on a little from that now. I will meet relatives of my team-mates in Manchester next week and share memories, both good and bad.

I no longer think about Munich every day and I am glad of that. If I did, I don’t think I would ever sleep at night.

Some days I still find memories closing in. Some days I find it tough and others I don’t. But do I live with that horror every day? No, I don’t.

Manchester United's 'Busby Babes' squad lost eight players due to the tragedy in Munich

I am no hero, though. That much I know. On another day the same thing could have happened and I would have been the first to run and I would not have looked back.

I did what I did that day out of instinct and many others would have done the same if they could. In life, you are what you are and it is hard to change. I have heard stories from others who were there that I don’t recognise and that makes me angry.

I also hear stories — at after-dinner speeches and things like that — from people who say they weren’t there but may have been had circumstances been different. They know who they are. That makes me angry, too. I was there. I know what happened.

I loved being part of that team and I still treasure the memories.

I was a footballer first and foremost, not a hero. I felt like I was walking on to a Hollywood set when I joined for £23,000 from Doncaster Rovers in 1957. I still can’t believe I played more than 200 times for that great club.

(L-R) Gregg, assistant manager Jimmy Murphy and Foulkes on the train back to England

People say I am remembered fondly and I sometimes struggle to understand that. I have not always been a nice man down the years, so to learn of that affection embarrasses me a little. I am just glad that I was part of a great club and a great group of players.

I still watch their matches every week on the television in Ireland and I am still a supporter. Football has changed. It is not always the great game I remember but that does not dilute what I feel for Manchester United.

On Tuesday I will think of my friends and team-mates and will think fondly of the wonderful Jimmy Murphy, that brilliant, fiery little Welshman.

Gregg looks at an England shirt worn by his former United team-mate Nobby Stiles

He looked after the club and the team in the aftermath of what happened while Sir Matt Busby recuperated. He kept us going but God, he felt it all, too.

One day in Germany we went to the hospital to visit Duncan. Back at the hotel I heard a man crying on the stairs. It was Jimmy. People ask me often about Munich, of course. That’s natural. For years I stayed away from it, didn’t go near it. But then I asked myself why? There was no need to hide. I have made some kind of strange peace with it now.

I will travel to Manchester on Monday with my son John and my dear wife Carolyn. I’m apprehensive as I know some of it won’t be easy. I have not been back for many years. Over the years I have said things off the top of my head. Some of those things I regret and some I don’t. But what I feel about that team doesn’t change.

Some years ago I wrote this poem. I’ll leave it with you now.

How they laughed and loved and played the game together.

They played the game and gave it every ounce of life.

And the crowd they thronged to see such free young spirits.

My good god there was not many who came home.

The dice was cast, for some their last, on snow bound ground in far-off Serbia.

Roger Byrne, Mark Jones and Salford’s Eddie Colman.

Tommy Taylor, Geoffrey Bent and David Pegg.

Duncan Edwards, Dublin’s own boy Liam Whelan.

My good god, there was not any who came home.

They are those gone down that long, long road before us but each morn we try and keep them in our sights.

In memory’s eyes, the Busby Babes are all immortal.

The Red Devils’ spirit lives. It never died.

Harry Gregg was talking to Ian Ladyman