If only I’d said yes to those festive frolics

AS A member of the 6th Airborne Division, I dropped into France on D-Day. I sustained a shrapnel injury in my left ankle, but was not too bothered about it — and neither were the medics, who had to cope with more serious injuries on that day. So I soldiered on with a limp until we were relieved at the end of August and sent back to England. Towards the end of that year, my Normandy souvenir wound became infected and I decided to have the shrapnel removed. So I was sent to a small cottage hospital just outside my home town of Weston-super-Mare. The food was fabulous, drink was overflowing and those gorgeous nurses worshipped us like returning heroes. It was pure heaven. Then, just before Christmas Eve, the matron approached my bed and said: ‘I believe you are fit enough to leave us . . . but no one is waiting for your bed, so if you’d like to stay with us over Christmas, you may. ‘We have been supplied with a generous amount of Christmas fare. Plenty of drink will be available, and all the nurses have volunteered to work over Christmas, and are organising some games and entertainment for you. I am sure that you will have a very special time.’ I found the temptation overwhelming, but opted to return to my unit as it had been promised a 24-hour pass and I had told my family I’d be home for Christmas dinner. Early on Christmas Eve, I bade my ward comrades farewell and caught a train to Salisbury. At Bristol Temple Meads, two ambulance trains pulled in, packed with wounded American soldiers. I was surprised as our front line was static because both sides were waiting for the winter months to pass before resuming hostilities. But I soon found out the reason when I reached my unit. My sergeant looked at my bandaged foot and said: ‘Are you fit enough to travel?’ Rather stupidly I said yes and he said: ‘Right, get your gear, the whole division is moving back to the front line.’ So that was it: all my Christmas plans ended in that instant. I later found out the enemy had breached the American front in the forests of the Ardennes and were trying to split the armies in two. This was later known as the Battle of the Bulge. As we neared the front line, officers told us: ‘This is it. We fight and die here. We cannot allow the enemy to advance any further.’ As I gazed into the forest from where the attack would come, I thought of that hospital ward back home and my injured comrades, their bellies filled with roast turkey and Christmas pud, playing Blind Man’s Bluff with the young nurses. A tear rolled down my cheek in self-pity and I said to myself: ‘Jim, you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life!’

Jim Corbett, Bath.