As I sit
here in Preston on a grey cloudy afternoon trying to focus on my dissertation
my thoughts are 3000 miles away in the hot desert of Iraq. 10 years ago to the
day since the country was invaded to fight a "war on terror”. 10 Years ago I was 15, still at
school playing a silly amount of sports to keep me busy and doing well at
school. By this point I had already decided that the army was going to be my
future. Getting paid to play soldiers is good right?
I was bright
enough to go to sixth form, my mentor and head of sixth form offered me the
place there regardless of my upcoming GCSE results several times. I turned down
the offer, I wanted to get away, carry on playing sport, have a good job and
get paid for it. If any of you have ever been to Burnley, you might understand.
I had been
16 barely 3 months and I was walking through the gates of AFC Harrogate. 10
months I was there and to say I grew up in that time is more than an
understatement. People say that coming to University is the transition from
childhood to adulthood, a stint at AFC Harrogate will do that to anybody. My
father died recently but the proudest day of my life thus far was seeing tears
in his eyes as I marched passed him on finishing my training there. The memory
is so vivid still and that was 9 years ago.
Fast forward
a few years, I am now 19 in a hot foreign land doing all the things we
practised a million times in training. It might have been 35 degrees outside,
but trust me that is better than -10 in the Brecon Beacons and snow. Compared
to training these conditions were luxury, but the threat was very real. It
wasn’t just a game anymore; people’s lives were at stake. To liberate a nation
from an evil dictatorship who posed a serious threat to the world. Forget about
the politics I was there to do a job and when it comes right down to very basic
survival instincts what would you do? As it happens I did really believe I was
fighting the good fight for a just cause.
While I was there, many things happened and sometimes the days felt like
weeks and weeks felt like months. Every other day or so there would be a fire
fight. I was only involved in one serious one and I know I was lucky that day.
Some people were not so fortunate during my time there.
In the last
year two of my closest friends have died whilst serving on operations. Both
fighting the “War on terror” and both believing what they were doing was just
and right. Every time I hear that a British serviceman has died I feel like a
part of me has also died but for it to be somebody particularly close to me
hurts beyond compare. One leaves behind a fiancée who is at a loss with the
world and her career now and grieving in another continent as far away from
this world as possible. She called me a hero and compared me to her dead
boyfriend and one of my best friends. I was so overwhelmed with emotion, I felt
guilty at first and then immense pride. I don’t take compliments very well, I
went to London in February and a stranger said a similar thing to me. It makes
me very humble that people can hold me in that esteem. People like my friends
are the real heroes though; they died fighting for a righteous cause that they
believed in. Me, a hero? Pftt I am nothing but a mere man.
I left the
Army just before I was 21 after 4 and a half years, I didn’t want to leave but
was medically forced to leave. Some people say that you can never let go of the
army no matter how long you have been away. But it is the army that never lets
go of you, it is always a part of your heart and your soul. Maybe I was the
lucky one, I got away.
