one small step.

03^rd Jan 2012

Tuesday // 3pm // 1 month ago

Memoirs of a solider, Silenced.

So, you haven’t heard from me in a long, long time. But I am back. This is the beginning of my creative piece for uni, it’s a little (or a lot) rough around the ages. But, I just wanted to test the waters. I hope you enjoy, and bare with me as I journey this one out. x

Memoirs of a soldier, silenced.

It’s hard to find normality here. You start to miss the most bizarre things; walking your dog, going to the shop for a bloody loaf of bread, driving your piece-of-junk car, heading for a big old fry up with the lads, arguing with your deranged delinquent of a brother, your wife. I used to be just like you, sitting at home; watching the odd bit of news, Iraq popped up every now and then, never really paid much attention, never really cared. I needed a job. The TV made being a soldier look half decent; who doesn’t want to be their hometown hero? I applied. Piss easy, I thought. Wrong. Strangely, they don’t warn you about the sleepless nights, or the fear that grips you when you’re infantry battalion commander walks through the doors with another set of dog tags, they don’t even let you know about the endless bombardment of bullets, grenades, snipers, mortars, 24/7.  I can’t fathom the words to evoke an adequate enough depiction of this hell-hole, it’s the single most depressing place I ever had the displeasure of being acquainted with in my twenty seven years of being.  But here’s my ‘story’, the little bits the newsreaders forget to mention, the niggling thoughts I couldn’t put in my letters home. Please do me a favour before you begin to read, go to the shop, drive your car, go for a meal with your friends, go for another, hug your wife, hug her again, now your brother, and breathe in, breathe. You’re alive. You. Are. Alive.

Firstly, don’t bother reading this with a heavy heart. I didn’t just wake up one morning, to the clamour of bullets, bombs and twenty skin-head, camouflaged men, who have developed intolerance to sleeping silently. I chose this.  Careless, I was. Picture this, I am nineteen; I had less than half a dozen GCSEs to my name, there were two options: the dole, or the army. It was as simple as that. January 21^st 2003, 1600 hours, flight EL490. It begins. The heat hits you first, you clam up, your throat is etched with dehydration, suffocation. You’re sure as hell not in Belfast anymore. You arrive at camp, and nothing could ever prepare you for that. This is your home, you don’t know how long for, you could be sent home, dead or alive. They don’t care. You try to be okay, hopeful even. It doesn’t work. You write home every now and again, but it’s too painful, there’s not much you can say, they have your mouth tied shut with their bribes and threats. You wonder how long it will be until you can feel safe. You never do. There’s always a lingering feeling of panic, of uncertainty. The first death is tough, the second almost worst. It could be you. You know that, but you become detachable, from the stories you hear, the people you meet, life. It’s just a job.