what had happened. By the time we returned from our patrol the following week, the whole thing was a distant memory that will no doubt be written in to future Northern Ireland training programmes.
Despite these moments of fun, I was once again getting that old restless feeling in my water. Over the previous couple of years a lot of my old mates had left the army. We had received a lot of new younger recruits from the training depot, who, despite the training sessions that I regularly held for them in the NAAFI bar, seemed as though they could never replace my old drinking buddies. As a result of this, together with the uncertainty of the recently announced plans for cutbacks within the armed forces and foreseeing a surge of redundant soldiers hitting the job centre at the same time, I took the decision to quit while I was ahead and asked the army to release me. I had the mandatory speeches from everyone from the bottle washer in the 'Plastic Pub' to the colonel about how good a soldier I was and how I shouldn't do anything hasty that I might regret. But, true to form, I had made my decision and no one was going to talk me out of it.
So on 31 August 1991 I boarded a helicopter for my final journey to Belfast, leaving the safety of the only thing I had ever known for the previous six years, and began the first step to becoming a civilian again. It was a strange day, one I had awaited for three months since I had first made my decision, but when the day came I felt nothing of the relief I had expected. All I felt was sadness, as though in a way I was letting my mates down by leaving them in this place to face another year of danger without me.
I felt extremely anxious as to whether I had made the right decision as I didn't have a clue what Civvy Street would have to offer an ex-soldier with no training other than infantry tactics and weaponry. However, it's too late now, I thought as the helicopter rose away from what had been my life for so long and the only people I would truly trust again for a long time. In a strange way I felt like I had committed a terrible act of cowardice. Despite having served six years, I almost felt like ordering the pilot to turn back a couple of times during the twenty-minute or so flight, and I probably would have done so if I had thought he would have listened to me.
When I arrived at Belfast International Airport I ran into a couple of lads from D Company who were waiting for transport to take them to Aldergrove (the military side of the airport). I was able to have a couple of pints of real Guinness with them before they had to go and I was left to my own thoughts for about two hours before my flight.
I always felt particularly vulnerable whilst sitting in this airport, but this time more so as I felt so totally alone and isolated. I began to think how ironic it would be if I were to be blown up or shot now after surviving two tours and with just two hours to go on this, my last. Finally I boarded the flight and within three hours or so I was stepping off the train and taking the short route I had taken many times before from Mottingham Station to my parents' house in Eltham.
5
CIVVY STREET
While I had been away my mum and dad had bought a house back in Wales and my mum, who had never really settled in London, had moved back there and got herself a job with a local health authority. My dad was still at the sports centre but was due to take early redundancy the following year. So the pressure was on because I didn't really want to spend any more time than necessary in the environment that hadn't changed a great deal since I had joined the army to get away from it in 1985.
I took the first couple of weeks off. The army had owed me a couple of weeks' wages and I felt as though I could do with the time to readjust. I was to find it would take me a lot longer than two weeks to learn to cope with the outside world again. It was something I hadn't really thought about, but I didn't have any
Despite these moments of fun, I was once again getting that old restless feeling in my water. Over the previous couple of years a lot of my old mates had left the army. We had received a lot of new younger recruits from the training depot, who, despite the training sessions that I regularly held for them in the NAAFI bar, seemed as though they could never replace my old drinking buddies. As a result of this, together with the uncertainty of the recently announced plans for cutbacks within the armed forces and foreseeing a surge of redundant soldiers hitting the job centre at the same time, I took the decision to quit while I was ahead and asked the army to release me. I had the mandatory speeches from everyone from the bottle washer in the 'Plastic Pub' to the colonel about how good a soldier I was and how I shouldn't do anything hasty that I might regret. But, true to form, I had made my decision and no one was going to talk me out of it.
So on 31 August 1991 I boarded a helicopter for my final journey to Belfast, leaving the safety of the only thing I had ever known for the previous six years, and began the first step to becoming a civilian again. It was a strange day, one I had awaited for three months since I had first made my decision, but when the day came I felt nothing of the relief I had expected. All I felt was sadness, as though in a way I was letting my mates down by leaving them in this place to face another year of danger without me.
I felt extremely anxious as to whether I had made the right decision as I didn't have a clue what Civvy Street would have to offer an ex-soldier with no training other than infantry tactics and weaponry. However, it's too late now, I thought as the helicopter rose away from what had been my life for so long and the only people I would truly trust again for a long time. In a strange way I felt like I had committed a terrible act of cowardice. Despite having served six years, I almost felt like ordering the pilot to turn back a couple of times during the twenty-minute or so flight, and I probably would have done so if I had thought he would have listened to me.
When I arrived at Belfast International Airport I ran into a couple of lads from D Company who were waiting for transport to take them to Aldergrove (the military side of the airport). I was able to have a couple of pints of real Guinness with them before they had to go and I was left to my own thoughts for about two hours before my flight.
I always felt particularly vulnerable whilst sitting in this airport, but this time more so as I felt so totally alone and isolated. I began to think how ironic it would be if I were to be blown up or shot now after surviving two tours and with just two hours to go on this, my last. Finally I boarded the flight and within three hours or so I was stepping off the train and taking the short route I had taken many times before from Mottingham Station to my parents' house in Eltham.
5
CIVVY STREET
While I had been away my mum and dad had bought a house back in Wales and my mum, who had never really settled in London, had moved back there and got herself a job with a local health authority. My dad was still at the sports centre but was due to take early redundancy the following year. So the pressure was on because I didn't really want to spend any more time than necessary in the environment that hadn't changed a great deal since I had joined the army to get away from it in 1985.
I took the first couple of weeks off. The army had owed me a couple of weeks' wages and I felt as though I could do with the time to readjust. I was to find it would take me a lot longer than two weeks to learn to cope with the outside world again. It was something I hadn't really thought about, but I didn't have any
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