Epilogue

After getting cleaned up and handing in all our weapons and ammunition, it was finally time to head home. On the way though, we stopped over in Cyprus to do our compulsory decompression where we could unwind, relax in civilian clothing, drink beer and eat barbecue food. The officer in charge of the decompression was great. He had us all lined up on parade, in our fresh new uniforms with which we had been issued before flying home. He stood on a small wall and said, ‘Any man whom I catch in uniform half an hour after this parade will be charged. Is that understood?.’ We all laughed and this kind of jokey comment really set the mood for what was to come over the next 48 hours. Buses arrived to ferry us down to the beach where we stayed all day. There was a trampoline in the sea floating on a giant rubber ring, sea canoes, and ice creams. It was a world apart considering that, only three days ago, I had been caught up in an ambush with a lot of the other guys around me. That night there was a big barbecue and ice cold beer while we were entertained by four stand-up comedians. They were so funny and it was such a great relief to just be laughing non-stop for ages.

The next morning was a little bit more formal. We were still in civilian clothing but we had to sit and watch videos and listen to briefings about adjusting back into life at home. We were constantly reminded of the fact that it was normal to have nightmares, and things would seem odd and boring. We were all congratulated and a video montage was shown of various pictures and films of the tour. After this, though, it was business as usual and we put our uniforms back on and boarded the buses for Akrotiri from where we took off for the UK and RAF Brize Norton.

We landed quite late. I think it was about 11.00 pm. As usual, we were herded like sheep to collect our baggage and wander through to the outside world and the old familiar October chill in the air, and the smell of freshly fallen rain. I had not seen rain for nearly three months. I loaded my bergen and holdall into the coach’s cargo hold and presented my ID card to one of the admin clerks who ticked me off the list. Someone from the quartermaster’s store handed me a bottle of ale that had been brewed especially for our welcome home. It was called “1759, welcome home edition”. The label said it had been brewed by Red Rat brewery in Suffolk, and also had a comment on the back which read: ‘Well done…from some Bergh Apton supporters! Mrs Alison Freeman.’ It tasted great and I have kept the bottle.

On arriving at Elizabeth Barracks, the first thing I did was go to my car. Chris Worsley had asked me for a lift back to Peterborough so I waited for him outside of D Company lines. When we got back to my car I put the key in the ignition and turned but nothing happened. I could not believe it. I was absolutely livid. Mind you though, it had not been driven for three months, so I really should not have been surprised. The barrack guard Land Rover was driving about and stopped as it came by us. The driver opened the window and asked us if we needed some jump leads. The guard had anticipated this, bless him, and had spent the night driving around helping stranded soldiers. After a good zap of power my car burst into action and so Chris and I were now good to go back to Peterborough.

I had cocked up the timings when I told Annie what time I would be home. I said that I should be home around midnight. It was just after 3.00 am when I dropped Chris off and going on for 4.00 am when I pulled into my drive. She had said that she would wait up, but I doubted that she would last until that late. I opened the front door and walked into my dark flat. The living room light was on and there was Annie asleep on the sofa. I knelt down beside her and stroked her hair. As she stirred the blanket that was covering her slipped down to reveal a basque and stockings. I could not help but laugh and grin at the surprise she had planned for me. At that moment, she woke up and gave me the biggest hug I have ever had.

The next two weeks were much the same as R & R, just spent enjoying myself and seeing everybody again. In any case, I still had Teddy and the rest of the guys in the back of my mind as they were still out in Afghanistan. I drove back to barracks to welcome B Company home and to start the ball rolling on my leaving the Army. There never were one or two specific reasons why I left the Royal Anglians. There were loads of little ones really. Sergeant Major Snow called me into his office one day and said it was great having me as a soldier under his command and, if I wanted back in, then I should give him a call. The RSM, WO1 Robinson, said the same and added that he would have me back in the unit in no time. So, knowing I had the Army as my safety net, I drove out of Elizabeth Barracks for the last time to start my life as a civilian.

I proposed to Annie in Paris just like I planned. She said yes which is also what I had planned so all was going well so far. But then something we had not planned happened: Annie fell pregnant. Just as I started working as a civilian, in a suit, in an office, I was also to become a father. I embraced it and did not shy away from it. I was happy to be a Dad, I felt ready. But it started to feel like I was living someone else’s life. My life just felt it had a part missing. I was bored a lot of the time. I missed that rush of adrenaline. I used to drive at speed up to a roundabout and try my hardest not to brake but instead time the flow of traffic and slot into it just for fun. Work was interesting enough, I had never really worked within an environment with women, and so was scared and unsure as to what to say to them. I did not want to look like a weirdo, but at the same time did not wish to seem as though I was trying to pull them either.

In addition, the mentality of my colleagues was so different. In the Royal Anglians I knew that every man there would risk his life for me and I would do likewise, but I would not trust the men in the office with my biro. There was so much back stabbing, along with immaturity and over-inflated egos. I made friends with a guy called Phil Dedman who really listened to me and was genuinely interested in my tour of Helmand. However, I did not like the job that much and wanted out. I did not have to wait long because the recession kicked in, and being in sales for the first time ever was made near damn impossible for me. Even the more seasoned sales people struggled to hit targets. I was trying to sell search engine optimisation, which is basically a service that places your website on the front page of Google in response to any search phrase for which you want to be found. It is a really good form of advertising but it comes at a big cost and, with businesses tightening their belts, I was doomed. After three months of being a civilian I was now unemployed, and with a baby on the way and buying a new house I thought I would have to rejoin the Army.

A good friend of mine, Dave Phillips, managed to get me a job working as a van driver for the property maintenance firm for which he worked. I would drop a decorator off at his job, pick up the bathroom suites from the depot, deliver them to the plumbers, pick up the old suites and dispose of them at the depot. The firm had a contract with Mears who were renovating the kitchens and bathrooms of all the council houses in Peterborough so the job seemed secure. I loved being a white van man with my long hair now there was no sergeant major to tell me to get it cut. But it did not last. The boss kept increasing my workload so the pressure increased.

My baby daughter, Sophie, was born on 3 July, so the sleepless nights started. One day, whilst driving along the A47 in Peterborough, I was behind a big old articulated lorry when suddenly, out of nowhere, a stone flew off the top of the trailer in front and came crashing into my windscreen. I yelled, ‘Contact!’ at the top of my voice and once again heard the rattle of gunfire and the whooshes of RPGs. The smell of cordite burned my nose and smoke grenades clawed at my throat. I then remembered I was not in Helmand but in my van. When I arrived at the depot, I climbed out and chain-smoked about three cigarettes while my hands trembled and my stomach was in knots.

After that I could not sleep at all. I saw silhouettes of people in the corner of my eye. I felt unsafe in crowded areas and that eventually grew to whenever I was outside. Annie told me that maybe I should seek help, and that there was nothing wrong with that. I remembered the briefings at Cyprus and finally agreed to go to my GP. He diagnosed post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) for which I underwent six weeks of counselling, which really helped. My counsellor recommended that maybe I should write things down. However, I found it easier to talk so I recorded my voice instead. I spoke as if I was in the pub telling someone what had happened on my tour and I felt better.

But then the worst thing of all happened. After moving into our new home, irregularities started appearing in my paycheck. Some times I was not paid. This carried on through Christmas and into January. The excuse was that Mears had not processed the invoices correctly. In reality I was working for someone who played God by deciding who would be paid and who would not so they could keep our wages to clear their own personal debts. I walked out in February. I had a child and a mortgage, but no income and was owed over £2,000 in unpaid wages.

‘Welcome to civilian life,’ I thought as I stood in the dole queue, ‘What has happened to me?.’ I felt stripped of all my dignity. I had fought for this country twice, so maybe it was time to get something back from it. It took a few hours and then a few letters and telephone calls before I received any dole. The job centre could not find any record of me paying any National Insurance and initially claimed that I was not entitled to anything. I soon proved them wrong when I showed them my pay slips from the Army. I also tried to back-date my claim to when I actually left my last job but this was refused. I explained that I had tried finding a job off my own back but that apparently was not a good enough reason. I needed to find a job as soon as possible as, by this time, I was receiving letters from companies threatening legal action and bailiffs.

I started my own legal proceedings to obtain my unpaid wages. In the meantime I contacted SSAFA, the Soldiers Sailors and Air Force Association, which is a charity exclusively for the armed forces. Pam from SSAFA obtained help for us from the Royal British Legion and the Royal Anglian Association. I spoke to Jay who was now working as the recruiting sergeant for Peterborough. He told me he could get me back into the Royal Anglians in no time. I thought hard about that and, in the end, it was my brother who talked me round. He said he could not let me rejoin the infantry to be killed, and then have to look my daughter in the eye and tell her he did not do everything he could to stop me. He was right, my priorities had changed. I could no longer be how I used to be and go off to wherever the Army sent me. I had to stay and look after my family, but also have a military job. That’s when it hit me. I knew of part of the Army that provides armed security in the UK. It never goes abroad and works shifts. My next-door neighbour, Rick, has a brother in it and he told me all I needed to know. I phoned the careers office and, in less than four months, I was starting my second career in the Army in the MPGS, Military Provost Guard Service.

I eventually received my unpaid wages through the county court ten months after I walked out. All my belongings are still mine and not the bailiffs.’ I am employed in a familiar job but it has to be said a lot calmer version of it. Finally, after a year of being a civilian and nearly wrecking my life, my feet are back on the ground. I have my family and my life to look forward to.

When I think back to my time in Helmand, I remember the good as well as the bad things. Like when you have a tattoo, you know it hurts a little while you are having it done but you cannot remember exactly how much it hurts until you’re back in the chair having another. I know that physically and mentally Afghanistan was very hard on me and every other soldier who fought in Op HERRICK 6 but I doubt I will ever again truly appreciate just how hard it was. Now, though, when I read or watch something about the First or Second World War, and any other conflict in the twentieth or twenty-first century, I feel a lot closer to those people who fought in them. I know from first-hand experience what it feels like to be there waiting to launch into battle. To be shot at, and to shoot at someone. To hear the sound of incoming mortar bombs and cries of ‘Man down!’ and worry whether it is a close friend. Instead of feeling worry or apprehensive when I recall the summer of 2007, I now embrace it and accept that it is just part of my life history.