A love forged in flames: The awe-inspiring story of how a badly-burned soldier married his sweetheart



Martyn Compton, a headstrong young soldier, met Michelle Clifford in a Kent pub in January 2006, and at their very first meeting he knew she was 'the one'.



From that day on, the couple were virtually inseparable and, in June, Martyn picked a gold and silver engagement ring and asked Michelle to marry him. She lost no time in saying 'yes'.

The only cloud on their blissfully happy horizon was that Martyn - then aged just 22 - was about to be posted to Afghanistan for his first tour of duty with the Household Cavalry. Michelle, a teacher three years his senior, was characteristically practical. 'Well, it's your job,' she told him.

Five weeks later, Martyn and his colleagues drove into a Taliban ambush. Three of his friends died instantly when a rocket propelled grenade slammed into the armoured vehicle that Martyn was driving.

Proud moment: Against all the odds, Martyn finally fulfilled his dream of walking down the aisle to marry Michelle

Martyn, however, survived both that and a second grenade attack, but was appallingly injured in the subsequent explosions and fighting. Hovering on the brink of death, he was flown back to Britain with 75 per cent burns to his body and a badly broken leg shattered by a Taliban bullet. No one knew whether he would live.

But equally, no one knew whether the couple's still very new love would survive. The handsome young man Michelle had waved a tearful goodbye to only a few weeks earlier had gone for ever; no one would have blamed her if she'd walked away from the almost unrecognisable figure who, swathed in bandages and dressings, now lay in a coma in an Essex military hospital.

Told in their own words, Home From War is the truly inspiring story of what happened next - although their story begins with Martyn's recollection of the day that was to change their lives utterly.

Martyn: Helmand Province Afghanistan August 1, 2006

The Taliban fighter peered over the wall. I recognised the unmistakable warhead of his rocket-propelled grenade. He was close and I was going nowhere. Stuck inside the ruined hulk of my wagon, I was a sitting duck.

Fire and smoke were pouring everywhere - the machine-gun turret had dropped into the tank. The roof was gone. The back door was gone. The floor was gone. And my crew was gone. All I could do was hope for the best. I'd survived the initial attack after we'd driven into this seemingly deserted village, so maybe my luck was in.

Love at first sight: Martyn, with Michelle, before the grenade attack in Afghanistan

The Taliban tilted his head, aimed his launcher right at me and fired.

The grenade hurtled towards me, trailing a plume of smoke. It shot past my shoulder and hit the Spartan's engine. The engine exploded. The fireball swallowed me.

Michelle: Frittenden, Kent, August 1-2, 2006

I felt a buzzing in my handbag and signalled to Ella, the hairdresser, to switch the dryer off. I pulled the phone out of my pocket; it was Martyn's dad.

'Michelle there's been an accident,' Rob said. I caught my breath. In an instant, the world shrank to nothing apart from Rob's voice. 'Martyn's seriously hurt.'

When I arrived at Rob's, two officers were there - one in uniform, one in civvies. Rob, Martyn's devoted dad, sat in his armchair.

Sarah, my best friend, was there and so was Tom, one of Martyn's closest Army pals who was now married to his stepsister, Sophie. I sat next to them, silent, still, intent.

'There was an ambush this morning,' said the one in uniform. 'Three soldiers were killed and Martyn suffered serious burns. He's very seriously injured.'

'When can I see him?' That was the only thing that mattered: seeing my man.

'Martyn will be flown into the UK as soon as he's stable. We'll keep in touch.'

When the officers had gone, Tom put his arm round me. 'You can cry if you want to; no point bottling things up.' I shed a few tears and then I thought of Martyn. What was he going through, while I was sitting there crying?

I made a decision there and then: I would be strong for Martyn. I wouldn't cry again. I needed to hold things together, for Martyn's sake.

On the evening of the next day, Martyn was flown home and Rob and I drove to Broomfield Hospital, near Chelmsford, to meet him.

What none of us knew was that Broomfield was to become the centre of our lives for the next four months.

Michelle: Broomfield Hospital, August 2, 2006

At 11.30pm, the moment came. Rob was taken in first. He was only in with his son for a few minutes, but it seemed like an hour.

He came out, looking as if someone had stolen his soul.

He struggled for the right words. 'Michelle, prepare yourself. He looks awful. You won't know it's Martyn.'

'I will,' I said, 'I will recognise Martyn.'

I was taken into a gowning room and given a blue plastic gown and mask.

My hands shook as I tied the mask. I could feel my heart banging against my ribcage and hear my blood throbbing in my ears.

The happiest moment: Martyn and Michelle struggled to hold back tears of joy on their wedding day



Everything went into slow motion as the door swung open and there, amid a macabre nest of ominous wires and machinery, was Martyn.

He was bandaged from head to toe. His body was abnormally huge and metal rods pierced his thigh.

All I could see was his face, which, although it was grotesquely swollen, I still recognised as Martyn's.

There were two holes where his nose had been, with a tube disappearing into each one. A large black nozzle plugged his lips, which were enormous.

His eyebrows were black and singed; his cheeks were black and cracked. His eyes were slightly open, staring but vacant. I shuddered at the violence.

Then I looked at his neck, which was as wide as his head and had a large gash in it, several inches long. Deep and red, it was horrific. I wanted to scream.

In my head, I said: 'I love you. Please live,' and hoped he would somehow hear me.

The doctors kept Martyn heavily sedated for weeks, during which he underwent many operations and skin grafts.

Over that time, Michelle and Rob maintained an almost constant vigil by his bedside, with Michelle taking a growing interest in understanding Martyn's medical condition and the future care he would require.

Eventually, however, his sedation was gradually decreased and, from the increased activity on his heart monitor, it was clear he was beginning to respond to outside stimuli around him and, in particular, to Michelle's voice.

Michelle: Broomfield Hospital, August 29, 2006

It has been good talking to you for the last few days; I can't wait for the day when you can talk to me again.

You had another nine-hour operation today, so Sarah took me shopping, which was nice of her.

By the way, I booked our wedding today. It will be at the Port Lympne Wild Animal Park on July 12, 2008. So you have something to aim for now. And I tried a wedding dress on; it was lovely.

Michelle was never in any doubt that she would not marry Martyn

This August has been the most dreadful month of my life and I've been willing it to end on a positive note. And tonight it did.

We were in intensive care after they'd closed your tracheotomy to see if you could breathe for yourself. As I watched your chest rise and fall, I knew it had been a success.

'Do you love me?' I asked. You slowly nodded your head. 'Can't you tell me?' Then you said it; a tiny, imperceptible breath that sparked a bonfire in my heart: 'I love you.'

Michelle: Broomfield Hospital, September, 2006

I dipped my little fingers in the orange juice, placed them into the corners of Martyn's mouth and pulled his mouth open. I grimaced.

I knew it hurt him but that's scar management: if it's not hurting, it's not working.

It also occurred to me that I was now doing for Martyn things I would expect to do at the end of his life, not in his 20s. But when you plan to take someone in sickness and health, there aren't any regulations on timing.

But there were rewards, as an urgent call from Rob one day proved. 'We've got some news,' was all he said.

I rushed back to the hospital, holding my breath as I walked into Martyn's room, not knowing what I would find. 'Hello, babe,' he said, 'Are you all right?'

Elation washed over me in waves, tears threatened to gush down my face. I couldn't believe the joy I was feeling. Martyn's voice may have been quiet and weak but it was back and, this time, it was back to stay.

'Yes, darling, I'm all right,' I said. 'You?'

Martyn: Broomfield Hospital, September 2006

I had an urgent question to ask someone but it couldn't be just anybody. I waited until I was on my own with a male doctor.

'How are you today, Martyn?' he asked. 'Fine,' I replied. I always said I was fine. 'Erm..?'

The doctor lifted his head, as I tried to look in the direction of what was concerning me.

'Everything's all right, is it - down there?' I asked. 'No bits missing?' The doctor smiled. 'Everything's fine down there, Martyn. You've been lucky.'

'Nice one,' I said. I looked around my hospital room, at all the pictures Michelle had pinned up - family and friends, all grinning, all posing. And then I saw the pictures of Port Lympne and I felt something churn in my guts. We were getting married there in a couple of years. But would Michelle want to marry me now?

My fears were allayed when I heard her voice, when she told me she loved me. And I loved her so much.



I made a decision. I didn't know how I was going to do it but I'd die trying. I was going to walk Michelle down the aisle. I was going to be the best bridegroom I could be. And after that, I'd be the best husband.

Martyn: Broomfield Hospital, October 31, 2006

Joanna, my occupational therapist, entered the room, carrying a mirror. It was pressed against her, the glass turned away from me. Michelle gripped my hand.

'I know you want to go outside, Martyn, and we've got a wheelchair ready. But before you do, you need to know what you look like. Are you ready?' Michelle and I looked at one another and I turned towards Joanna and nodded.

It was three months since the incident. I knew that 75 per cent burns meant I couldn't look good but I had no idea what to expect.

Martyn Compton thought Michelle would no longer want to marry him with his badly-scarred face



But Joanna gave me a pretty good idea, verbalising what I would see to lessen the shock: 'You look very different but you are the same person underneath. Your mouth is tight and you've lost the tip of your nose and your ears.'

If this was lessening the shock, I wasn't sure it was working.

'Your eyelids are turned slightly inside out and the texture of your skin is red and wrinkled.'

She looked at me. 'Call me if you need me,' and then she left Michelle and me alone.

Slowly I brought the mirror up. I knew it was me but the Martyn I remembered had gone. My skin was red raw and scarred. The fire had sliced me open and given me a good kicking.

Shock washed over me. I began to cry and so did Michelle. Eventually, I spoke. 'I look horrible.'

Could Michelle really imagine a life with me? With this face?

'Are you sure you still want to be with me?' I asked.

'If the situation was reversed, would you still want to be with me?'

'Of course,' I replied. 'There's your answer. But I'm telling you straight, if you're going to become a recluse and stay in the house and hide, then I'll walk away because that's not you. But if you stay the same Martyn I fell in love with, then I'll always be with you - always.'

Martyn was eventually discharged from Broomfield on December 11, 2006, but he still faced many more operations and months, if not years, of physiotherapy and rehabilitation. As Peter Dziewulski, his consultant at Broomfield, had told him: 'A burn is for life.'

He went to live with Michelle and her parents, who widened doorways to accommodate his wheelchair and converted a downstairs room into a bedroom for the couple.

Martyn: Frittenden, Kent, December 2006

I left Broomfield more grateful than I could ever express and on good terms with everyone, except, possibly, the nutritionist who didn't think I was eating enough.

I just knew I needed to get back to some good old home cooking and that first night at Michelle's parents, Rosie and Brian, was a great start to my new eating regime, which basically meant scoffing anything put in front of me.

I was tired. It had been a long day. It was time I was in bed. But I'd not slept in a normal bed for five months and I'd not shared a bed with Michelle in all that time, either. My heart thundered. I didn't know what it would be like.

But lying next to her was wonderful. Feeling her body next to mine, for the first time since I'd left for Afghanistan, was a moment I treasure and keep in my heart. My skin was ravaged and I couldn't move much or shift towards her but the sensation of Michelle snuggling up to me was magical. It was everything.

I closed my eyes and felt calmness wash over me. I was home. I was with Michelle. There was nothing else.

Friends and family were never far away, there were regular visits from mates from the Regiment, including one from Andrew Radford, the father of four who risked his life to rescue Martyn under heavy Taliban fire and was awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross for bravery.

There were also morale-boosting visits from Simon Weston, the Welsh Guardsman who was badly burned during the Falklands War and an introduction to the Household Cavalry's best-known recruit, Prince William, who has taken a personal interest in Martyn and Michelle ever since.

But, best of all, in the complex trauma gym at Headley Court rehabilitation centre, between two hand height parallel bars, Martyn took his first faltering and excruciatingly painful, steps. His dream of walking Michelle down the aisle was very much alive.

Martyn: Headley Court, August, 2007

A year from the incident and six months into rehab, I was making incredible progress - eating with normal cutlery, building up my strength and even walking quite well. But now I faced a new challenge: stairs.

The Household Cavalry had been with me through all my highs and lows, so it was appropriate that Will, the commanding officer of D-Squadron, and Alistair, my brilliant liaison officer, were there for the occasion.

I made it up those seven steps but it was bloody hard work, with Will and Al there cheering me on.



I felt like Rocky when I got to the top. If we'd had a bottle of champagne, I'd have cracked it open there and then. But we didn't, so we had a cuppa instead.

Martyn: Westfield, East Sussex, June, 2008

Suddenly, in our house there was blood everywhere. I'd cut my finger slicing some bread, so off I went to hospital to have it stitched. It felt ridiculous, really - me with all my injuries waiting to be treated for what I'd consider a scratch.

So, when I'd been waiting around for a while, my impatience got the better of me and I told the nurse I was going home, bleeding finger and all. 'You can't go home,' she told me briskly, 'you'll need to have that stitched or you'll have a nasty scar.'



She stopped dead and gawped at me, her mouth open. She realised what she's said. Nasty scar. I didn't have any ears, for God's sake.

Embarrassment flushed her cheeks but I smiled and showed her that I didn't mind. People have just got to get used to me. This is how I am. I'm a peace with it now.

Martyn: Blackpool, July 4/5, 2008. The Stag Night

What a night. I didn't buy a beer all night. The club was packed and people kept coming up to me and asking if I'd like a beer. And I kept saying I would.

I think it was down to the T-shirt that my mates had made especially for the occasion. On the front was a picture of me and Michelle and the words: 'Blown Up, Set Alight And Shot By The Taliban', while on the back it read 'I Survived Death To Walk My Fiancee Michelle Down The Aisle'. It was a brilliant night.

Michelle: Port Lympne, July 12, 2008. Wedding Day

'Dad, slow down.' I wanted to savour the moment. Two cavalrymen trumpeted their fanfare; it was amazing to have such a salute at my wedding. I couldn't have dreamed of this. I was almost there.

It had been a long hard journey but I was about to stand beside the man I loved, the man I had seen lying torn and broken and burned in a hospital bed less than two years before.



The man who'd said he'd walk me down the aisle, despite some people doubting he'd ever stand again. And now, here he was waiting for me at the top of the steps lined by our guard of honour.

He looked so handsome in his morning suit and black headscarf. He smiled down at me and my heart leapt. I felt a tug on my dress. 'Dad, don't stand on my dress.'

And with that dad walked me up the steps, past the guard of honour, to Martyn, the man I was about to marry. When I got to his side, I held his hand and looked him in the eye. We smiled at each other and I couldn't believe how lucky we were to be standing there.

Martyn: Port Lympne, July 12, 2008

I waited on the terrace with my two best men, nervous as hell. I heard the 'oohs' and 'ahs' that signalled Michelle's arrival. By this time, I could hardly stand. My stomach churned with anxiety. The wait seemed like for ever.

The Household Cavalry trumpeters started playing the Knightsbridge Fanfare I turned around and, suddenly, there she was, gliding round the corner, the girl who meant everything to me. My heart sang and the tears came easy.

And yes, later, after the ceremony, I did walk my bride 'down the aisle' as I'd promised myself, but when the big moment I was so overcome by the joy of the occasion that I'd forgotten all about my pledge.

You see at that moment, I wasn't Martyn, the injured soldier, I was just Martyn. Martyn the husband who had just married Michelle, the most beautiful bride in the world.