A breed apart.
Uncle Bert's leg was a real problem to him and after the war, I am told, he often went to a military hospital in Yorkshire for treatment. He'd obviously, though it was not really spoken about, fought like a tiger in three theatres of war before being injured at Arnhem, where he (a lifelong speed freak with a penchant for motorcycles) used a motorbike to move around skirmishing with the Germans. One Sunday, he went for what he thought was yet another routine hospital visit. That night, an orderly who he often saw on these visits said "You all ready for the morning then, Bert?" He replied "What are you on about?"
The orderly told him he was first on the following day's list for surgery- an amputation was booked. He phoned my Grandfather who drove through the night to collect him. Bert never returned to that hospital, managing for the next 4 decades with a stick and a slightly built up shoe. A more pleasant, practical and modest man you couldn't have wished to meet. But something about him just said that he'd closed a door on a few years spent as a very, very hard man indeed.
In fact, when my Grandfather (whose twin brother was already a prisoner of war having been captured at Dunkirk) received his call up papers, Bert was home on leave and marched to the recruiting office where he informed them that his brother would not be taking a frontline role in the ongoing hostilities. Family history does not record what Bert did or threatened to do to the recruiting staff. But it does record that they ensured that my Grandfather spent the war teaching soldiers how to drive lorries.
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