This will be another year of First and Second World War anniversaries. MATT CLARK looks at one of York’s most poignant reminders of man’s inhumanity to man, while highlighting the importance of reconciliation.

KEEP pigeons out and keep peace within, proclaims a note on the door of St Martin's Church in Coney Street. They're not averse to a few doves though, as long as they aren't real.

A couple are depicted on the stained glass window, a gilded one adorns the font cover and, as if by coincidence, a pair are circling the tower looking for somewhere to land – no easy task on a blustery day like this.

There is a reason for favouring the symbol of peace. All churches offer hope and sanctuary, but St Martin's dispenses a different brand, because in 1942 it was reduced to a smouldering, stump during the Baedeker raid.

This ruined building slept "disturbed only by the pigeons" until 1968 when she awoke from her slumbers to become a shrine of remembrance for all who died in both world wars. A chapel of peace and reconciliation between nations and between men.

Ironically, the church was named after St Martin of Tours, who is the patron saint of soldiers and in another, this time remarkable, coincidence Remembrance Day, is also his feast day.

This fact was not lost on architect George Pace, who was commissioned to take on the rebuilding work. Pace wanted to rekindle some of the beauty of a building described in 1868 by the National Gazetteer of Great Britain and Ireland as "one of the most beautiful churches in the city", while leaving reminders of its wartime fate and the sacrifice made by those who paid the ultimate price in battle.

From Coney Street, St Martin's looks for all the world a typical 15th century parish church. But glimpse through the railings and you see something very different – distinctively 1950s but with hints of a much longer history.

Neither view prepares you for what lies inside.

Pride of place is the vast 15th century window that immediately faces you, rising from floor to ceiling. Made in around 1447 and showing scenes from the life of St Martin of Tours, it originally lit the body of the church from the river side.

This too was the subject of a remarkable coincidence, because the window had been removed for safety two years before the bombing and so survived intact. It features scenes from the life of St Martin and in one panel he is shown rescuing a hare from pursuing hounds; in another he forces the devil to carry his prayerbook.

At nine metres high and four metres wide, this great wall of glass is the largest window of any parish church in York. It also became the inspiration for Pace's restoration, whose bold use of similar gilding throughout the church gives a degree of unity between old and new.

St Martin's priest is Reverend Jane Nattrass. She says the effect his work has on visitors is powerful and intended to arrest.

"It has been described as the best post-war church in the country; whether or not you agree you will certainly want to spend some time reflecting on what you see and the message of peace and reconciliation."

Perhaps the most powerful is in the shape of a mechanical pipe organ that was presented by the German Government and German Evangelical Church as a token of such reconciliation.

Then as you look down the nave, your eyes are drawn to the extraordinary gilded Last Supper by Frank Roper in 1968 and to the East Window above by Harry Stammers in 1964. Both are aggressively of their period and dominant symbols of a more hopeful future.

The iron work of the altar rail is distinctively a George Pace design, and the same motif can be found throughout the church, some subtly protecting memorials to those who died but have no known grave.

At the other end of the church is a fine 1717 font cover, with an even older story, because this is where Saint Margaret Clitherow was baptised in 1553.

St Martin's biggest claim to fame is the clock overhanging York's main shopping street. It was restored a couple of years ago and looks splendid to retail therapists, even though most have no idea why it is there.

But what you see now is a mere fragment of the medieval original. The clock, first fitted in 1668, and the gilded head of Father Time are replacements for the originals destroyed in the air raid. However, the 18th century Little Admiral survived the fire and is still taking a sighting of the sun with his sextant.

On the street side a modern archway symbolises the position of the east window of the old church, but Pace gave it a much reduced height to emphasise the gap left by the bombing.

And through distinctive Brutalist railings, there are more reminders; fire ravaged stumps – all that remains of the north arcade.

Reverend Nattrass says the separation from the street, and the starkness of the courtyard, often take people by surprise.

"But the symbolism of that is important and deliberate leaving the eye to focus upon the central cross," she says. "The church was not rebuilt, and what is there was intended to remind future generations of the loss and wastage of war.

"We must never forget, and can never forget at St Martin's, the rededication to peace and reconciliation."

Eucharists are held at St Martin's on Wednesdays at 12.15 and Saturday at 10am. Services follow the pattern in Common Worship and normally take no more than 30 minutes.