need it. Infantry soldiers are trained at least one up if needed; it’s not uncommon for commanders to be killed or wounded on the battlefield.
Thankfully, Monty is a strong senior non-commissioned officer (SNCO) who looks older than his years; his men admire him, and my medics feel safe with him. He is a typical Scotsman: likes a drink and smokes as many cigarettes as the day will allow. He is also a soldier that I learn a great deal from.
Given my mum’s background, I have no problems getting heavily involved in the Jock banter. Take young Ferris, for instance. ‘Shut it, ya wee fanny’ is a phrase that he often receives. Ferris is a comical young Jock who taunts all of the junior blokes and medics. Without realising it, he has become the soldiers’ morale booster, and he is always looking for an opportunity to act up. If he is not waking one of the other grunts up with the vision of his rear end or private parts right next to their face he is seeking out soldiers at their lowest point, trying to get a snap out of someone. Once the snap is complete, you will find the soldier recently at his lowest now laughing away with the rest of the troops. ‘Ferris therapy’ would never be approved by a medical board, but it works. I knew Ferris when I was a depot instructor. He was a young recruit when our paths first crossed. It’s hard to believe that we are now fighting alongside each other. He was the same then as he is now – a pest! I shake my head and laugh now, seeing his very white arse hanging out of a large hole in the back of his combats. This hole is from the wear and tear of the skirmishes that he has been in thus far, and he makes no attempt to cover it. It will no doubt soon provide a laugh for the other Jocks, if it hasn’t already.
Settling down into my bed space, I dig out my iPod and engross myself in the solace of some of my favourite tunes. I select a top twenty-five from my library, knowing this playlist will see me through the rest of this tour. My iPod turns out to be my one saving grace during these testing times.
Lying in the dark between Jen and Abbie, I think about my brother David. He was killed in 2002 when I was on exercise in Cyprus. David was trying to defuse a situation in the street outside a casino when he was killed. He was a non-aggressive person, which made his death hard to cope with. I keep a small picture of him in the inner sleeve of my body armour. It’s always there and very important to me. Along with the photo is a set of rosary beads. A friend of David’s gave them to me to put in his casket. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that his casket was already closed, so I kept them with me instead. I never thought of the beads as a religious symbol; they were simply full of memories of my brother.
A year after David was killed, I deployed to southern Iraq. Looking back, I don’t think I went through a natural grieving process. My grief would not surface until much later. The photo and rosary beads saw me through some rough times during my tours of Iraq in 2003 and Helmand in 2006. They are still with me on this tour, so if they get me home safe, they will stay with me forever.
Losing David was the worst thing that ever happened to me; the thought of losing blokes tonight reminded me of him. I was sure that if I were to die out here, my one consolation would be that I would get to see David again. The month after his death, I sifted through every inch of medical paperwork that there was on his case file. I tortured myself day and night, endlessly reliving the incident. I was also searching for someone to blame; as a medic, I felt both angry and guilty that I had not been there to save him.
I do not have long to reflect on my feelings about David or anything else. In the next instant, I am up and running around in my body armour and helmet. The Taliban have let rip another onslaught. For a split second, I think that they must have known I was having a ‘moment’. This
Thankfully, Monty is a strong senior non-commissioned officer (SNCO) who looks older than his years; his men admire him, and my medics feel safe with him. He is a typical Scotsman: likes a drink and smokes as many cigarettes as the day will allow. He is also a soldier that I learn a great deal from.
Given my mum’s background, I have no problems getting heavily involved in the Jock banter. Take young Ferris, for instance. ‘Shut it, ya wee fanny’ is a phrase that he often receives. Ferris is a comical young Jock who taunts all of the junior blokes and medics. Without realising it, he has become the soldiers’ morale booster, and he is always looking for an opportunity to act up. If he is not waking one of the other grunts up with the vision of his rear end or private parts right next to their face he is seeking out soldiers at their lowest point, trying to get a snap out of someone. Once the snap is complete, you will find the soldier recently at his lowest now laughing away with the rest of the troops. ‘Ferris therapy’ would never be approved by a medical board, but it works. I knew Ferris when I was a depot instructor. He was a young recruit when our paths first crossed. It’s hard to believe that we are now fighting alongside each other. He was the same then as he is now – a pest! I shake my head and laugh now, seeing his very white arse hanging out of a large hole in the back of his combats. This hole is from the wear and tear of the skirmishes that he has been in thus far, and he makes no attempt to cover it. It will no doubt soon provide a laugh for the other Jocks, if it hasn’t already.
Settling down into my bed space, I dig out my iPod and engross myself in the solace of some of my favourite tunes. I select a top twenty-five from my library, knowing this playlist will see me through the rest of this tour. My iPod turns out to be my one saving grace during these testing times.
Lying in the dark between Jen and Abbie, I think about my brother David. He was killed in 2002 when I was on exercise in Cyprus. David was trying to defuse a situation in the street outside a casino when he was killed. He was a non-aggressive person, which made his death hard to cope with. I keep a small picture of him in the inner sleeve of my body armour. It’s always there and very important to me. Along with the photo is a set of rosary beads. A friend of David’s gave them to me to put in his casket. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that his casket was already closed, so I kept them with me instead. I never thought of the beads as a religious symbol; they were simply full of memories of my brother.
A year after David was killed, I deployed to southern Iraq. Looking back, I don’t think I went through a natural grieving process. My grief would not surface until much later. The photo and rosary beads saw me through some rough times during my tours of Iraq in 2003 and Helmand in 2006. They are still with me on this tour, so if they get me home safe, they will stay with me forever.
Losing David was the worst thing that ever happened to me; the thought of losing blokes tonight reminded me of him. I was sure that if I were to die out here, my one consolation would be that I would get to see David again. The month after his death, I sifted through every inch of medical paperwork that there was on his case file. I tortured myself day and night, endlessly reliving the incident. I was also searching for someone to blame; as a medic, I felt both angry and guilty that I had not been there to save him.
I do not have long to reflect on my feelings about David or anything else. In the next instant, I am up and running around in my body armour and helmet. The Taliban have let rip another onslaught. For a split second, I think that they must have known I was having a ‘moment’. This
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