HE knows what he wants to say. But somewhere between Michael John's knowing the answer in his head and being able to share it, lies a murky morass of cognitive tripwires.

As you watch his hesitations, his face straining with the effort, his mouth attempting to shape the sounds, you can see words fighting to escape.

"Sometimes, they get stuck", is how he puts it.

Eventually, he asks if he can borrow my notebook and write it down.

He has to balance the book carefully against his paralysed right arm and write with his still-functioning left. He's not a natural left-hander, although practice has made pretty good.

Painstakingly, in neat capitals, he writes JEAN and PETER: the names of his parents.

The names he has spent the best part of 10 minutes struggling to pronounce.

"Sometimes I'm very quick thinking, but saying it is another thing," he explains.

Michael's quick wit is part of his charm.

When I arrive, announcing I'm from the Evening Post, quick as a flash he says: "That's your problem!"

All his Army days' banter is still intact, even if Michael himself wasn't quite so fortunate.

Michael, 49, was an 18-year-old private serving in Londonderry in Northern Ireland with the Duke of Wellington's Regiment when he was shot in the head at point-blank range while manning a checkpoint.

The bullet left Michael facing a host of problems including slurred speech, unstable movement and occasionally confused thought processes.

Yet Michael was still allowed to take up loan after loan with Lloyds TSB over five years. This left him with crippling debts, which Lloyds only wiped out last week when the Evening Post contacted them about Michael's story.

Until recently, Michael couldn't remember much about August 23, 1977. But lately, he has been able to seize on small shards of memory, piecing them together to form his tragedy.

He had already done one shift on the Londonderry checkpoint, but somebody else was late for duty so he was asked to do another. "Because I'm a nice one," he explains.

The checkpoints were set into the city walls – the "Derry Wall" that circles the city. Everyone had to be stopped and searched before they were allowed to enter.

It was 1977 and the Troubles were at their violent, unpredictable height. "It was a part where anything could happen," Michael said.

Three men approached. Two of them engaged him in conversation to distract him. The third was standing less than a metre behind him. He took aim with his pistol and fired at Michael's head.

The bullet entered the back left side of his head and exited through the front right. Then, he can remember the shouts. And the blood. His forehead wept with it.

He was pulled back from the brink of death with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and was taken by helicopter to hospital in Belfast.

Michael was transferred to Royal Herbert, a military hospital in Woolwich.

He lay in a coma for four months and his doctors weren't sure if he'd live.

But his parents and four sisters had faith, he says.

When he emerged from his life-death limbo, he says he had to re-learn everything.

"I was like a little baby. I couldn't do anything at all. I couldn't speak and I couldn't walk so I thought I'd better do something about it. I'm still doing something about it now."

It took him six weeks of mouth exercises to recover some of his speech.

"How now brown cow," he demonstrates.

The hospital put him on a service rehabilitation plan. He had a metal plate inserted into his head and learned to walk on a frame.

The garage at his Notts home is full of the lifting machines he used to retrain his muscles. "You're a walking miracle, aren't you?" says Paul Mulingani.

Paul is a major, retired from the Staffordshire Regiment (Prince of Wales) and is now county manager of the Royal British Legion in Notts and Derbyshire.

Michael is one of among 1,000 former soldiers in the Notts and Derbyshire area who served in Northern Ireland and are helped by the Legion.

He moved to West Bridgford from his Huddersfield home in 1983 to do a residential course at Portland College in Mansfield.

He lived first at Leonard Cheshire in Nottingham, before buying a house. He is in contact with his parents but his mother suffers from ill-health so they are unable to visit regularly.

The British Legion has looked out for Michael since 2006.

Initially, he'd approached them because he couldn't afford to buy a lawnmower.

But the Legion has learned the most trivial-seeming inquiry can reveal more serious problems to unravel.

When Paul visited Michael's West Bridgford home to discuss the matter further, he slowly realised something was wrong.

"As I looked around, I noticed the house was clearly in need of re-decoration. When I asked him why he hadn't done it, he said he couldn't afford it. It was then I started to ask him where all his money was going."

The short answer was Lloyds TSB.

Paul asked Michael for permission to see his bank accounts. He was shocked when he saw Michael's finances were reeling beneath the weight of massive loan repayments.

Yet, as recently as 2003, Michael's financial position had been comfortable.

He had bought his £93,000 home outright in 1990, using his £119,000 Army compensation. In addition, he had £16,000 in his bank account.

However, in 2003 Michael took out a £50,000 loan with Lloyds TSB.

"It's not clear why the loans were offered or what they were for," says Paul.

It is believed some of the money disappeared in a lottery scam.

The following year he met a bank manager to consolidate his accounts, resulting in a further loan of £25,000.

Then in 2005 he got another £21,000 loan.

All three loans were secured against Michael's home. In 2006, he got another loan of £10,000, then another of the same amount in 2007.

By the time the British Legion discovered what was happening, Michael was paying nearly £1,200 to Lloyds TSB out of his £1,600 a month in benefits and war pension – almost 75% of his income.

Until last week, he faced seven more years of repayments on outstanding debts of more than £60,000.

"If he didn't keep up repayments, they would seek possession of his property," adds David Martin, benefit and money advice caseworker with the Legion.

However, since the Evening Post approached the bank, Lloyds have decided to write off Michael's debts.

A spokesperson for the bank said its staff had worked closely with Michael to put the situation right.

The spokesperson said: "Following the subsequent medical information that has been made available to us, we have taken the decision to refund the credit agreements made with Mr John."

A spokesperson for the British Bankers' Association adds: "It isn't common that people with capacity issues are granted loans but I'm not saying it never happens. Where it does happen, it shouldn't."

Paul said he thought the bank had taken advantage of a very vulnerable man but added: "It's very satisfying that the bank have written off the debt.

"They have recognised Michael's sacrifice for his country and have done the right thing."

Now Michael is free from the burden of debt, his benefits can do what they were always meant to do – benefit him.

Although Michael remains in charge of his finances, the Legion is helping him manage his money.

"Now his home will be his own," says Paul. "You need to remember that, when Michael was shot, he was a kid of 18. His life, from that stage, was taken away from him. The fact he's managed to do so much is down to his own efforts."