I was apprehensive. I certainly wasn’t in a UK mindset owing to the fact I was only just out of a war zone. I really could have done with a week or so at home to unwind and chill. I was still highly-coiled from battle. I was unsure also of how to deal with the injury on my elbow; it wasn’t a massive issue but it did need sorting. I knew if I just left it I’d have problems with it later down the line. I wouldn’t have much room to manoeuvre with any claims for support; they’re always looking for a getout clause. A good friend who is a patrol medic advised me to get it seen to and get it on record just for assurance. I felt guilty though. I’d seen men with far, far worse injuries. Also I hadn’t been maimed like them, even after being in three explosions at less than 10ft from the device, 2ft being the closest and nothing.
It’s only now I realize that my injuries were non-visible injuries. I don’t call it mental health; I’m trying to steer us away from that. The term has been polluted over time. A fresh start is required and the wording non-visible injuries sums it up best. Injury means temporary. I wish I’d known this at the time of arriving in Chilwell. I whizzed round the different sections. I left the medical and administration until the end. I did my hearing test and same problem again: ears were still ringing and are today from explosions and gunfire, even with them being partially covered at the time. I passed somehow, most likely by again pressing the trigger like I was possessed. As I waited to see the doctor it felt different; there was a hint of animosity towards the returning soldiers. The more seriously wounded would have been airlifted out of Afghanistan and straight to Selly Oak, but some of those with minor injuries, especially ones needing physio and so on for several weeks before they were back on their feet, were having to fight tooth and nail to receive any form of treatment. Obviously MOD Whitehall don’t want to cut back on defence deals even if they’re being ripped off, but will fuck the Tommies straight away to save pennies, not pounds. All these ‘remps’, rear echelon mother-fuckers as the US Marines on the front line would call them or, to us, those ‘in the rear with the gear’, while we’re running low on ammunition, food and lives, they’re fattened pigs, protecting their interests.
I was called forward to see the doctor, a chubby middle-aged balding man from Greece. I knew he was just a hired-in locum. All the military likes outsourcing too. He didn’t seem that competent to me. The elbow was deformed and inflamed; he said it would subside. I disagreed, and after a battle of wills I was given the chance to seek a second opinion. The following week I had an appointment at the Park Hospital outside Nottingham, very near to the police HQ. The specialist was a Scottish professor. He took a quick look and had it X-rayed. He advised I needed surgery to sort out the bone disfigurement and clean up the pouch that was accumulating under the elbow. I was relieved; at least it would be sorted. I was on light duties at my barracks in London until the date of the surgery.
Meanwhile my fiancée was organizing our wedding; I had time to help and it offered a welcome distraction to the whole waiting game. I don’t know where people get the idea that organizing a wedding is stressful. I thought it was a breeze, from sorting venues to flowers, table covers, music and so forth. Don’t get me wrong, once all had been whittled down to two or three options, my fiancée would ultimately make the so-called joint decision. Anything for peace, eh? I received the date of the surgery in the post: August 2010. The date was fast approaching and I was relieved. I figured I would be on the mend in time for the wedding in October of that year. I can tell you being on light duties in barracks is a pain in the arse, especially when you are so used to being in the thick of it. Busy and fit, now bored and restless.
I vividly remember driving up from Hertfordshire to have surgery on a Saturday morning. I arrived in good time, fasting all night and morning. Orders are orders. The procedure was carried out in a private hospital to cut the waiting time. As I waited for the consultant to come and speak to me, one of the staff delivered the bombshell that the MOD had not confirmed payment, even though letters had been sent for quite some time. It was hospital policy not to commence any treatment until payment had been secured. They asked if I was prepared to pay for my own operation and the additional costs. I replied no; it was up to the pen-pushers to sort out, not me. I received my injury in an IED blast, for which I was awarded for my actions. Paying for the surgery seemed a request too far in my book. They hurriedly disappeared. I’m sitting there, wondering what the hell was happening now. All my hopes of getting it sorted and being ready for the wedding had been obliterated in seconds. After a brief spell two staff entered the room to take my details and start prepping me for theatre. One informed me that Professor Wallace, the consultant who would be carrying out the surgery, had kindly put the bill on his credit card. My surgeon paid to operate on me. I was emotional; it was a kind and humane act. They then asked if it would be okay if I stayed over in a cheap hotel on my own and attended the hospital again in the morning to keep the costs down. I was in a state of shock, but after the kind gesture I agreed. I was unable to think.
Straight after the surgery I was brought round and woke up in the recovery room. I couldn’t feel anything from my shoulder down and my whole left arm was paralysed, wrapped up like a mummy. A nurse handed some hotel numbers to me. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Not twenty minutes after surgery and I’m calling hotels to get a room. I didn’t know if I was coming or going. All the drugs in my system, from the morphine to the anaesthetic, had me wobbling. After a while I ate some food. I somehow managed to dress myself one-handed and pack. To be honest, I just wanted to get out of there. The shame and embarrassment I felt was overwhelming. I had been reduced to a basket case.
I was waiting in the lobby for the taxi to take me to a hotel. I could see two staff looking over at me with pity on their faces. They were middle-aged ladies, most likely had kids around my age. I could tell they felt sorry for me. I couldn’t look; I was grinding my teeth so goddam hard. The only thoughts racing through my head were after all I’ve done, all I’ve been through, this is how I get treated. It took every ounce of strength not to start crying. I wouldn’t be broken. I’m not crying for anyone. ‘Your taxi’s here, sir.’ ‘Thanks.’ Head bowed, one foot in front of the other, keep going, keep going, you’ll make it to the taxi. Got in and don’t remember the journey. I was numb, mentally and physically. I arrived at the hotel, booked in, got to the room. Simple and tidy. After being in the siege in Nad-e Ali and all the shitholes since, it was a palace. However, I didn’t feel like a king. Completely the other end of the scale.
I got some refreshments and when morning arrived I hadn’t the heart to go back to the hospital to be seen by them all over again. I went to the car park early Sunday morning, picked up my car, jumped in and drove home one-handed. My fiancée was having her hen party the same weekend. When I spoke to her I told her everything had gone well. I wasn’t about to ruin her hen party with worry. A week’s leave at home and then back to Chilwell.
On the Monday morning I arrived and waited for the Greek excuse for a doctor. I now think that he was just under pressure from above to sign off unwell soldiers quickly as there were plenty like me there fighting their own battles. The idiot doc still reckoned I was okay. I could barely move my elbow. I was sent to see the physiotherapist, a New Zealand man called Steve. He didn’t need to do much assessing. He said I was nowhere near ready to be signed off. Thank God I had one person helping me to get better. He spoke at the case reviews and was adamant I attend the next rehabilitation course that was starting in ten days or so. It was decided, so I reported back to barracks in London and saw the chain of command about the whole debacle and the surgery as well. They just shrugged their shoulders. I was bloody raging. No support from my own regiment. I was surprised but, as you will find out in due course, it wouldn’t be the only time they completely abandoned their care of duty and military covenant.
I spent a few days at home. It was the only place where it seemed that I wouldn’t be getting some form of hardship. The wedding planning was again a welcome distraction. The rehabilitation course was going to be three weeks long. Assessments, physio, education on injuries and health generally. Some exercises specific to your injuries and then tests at the end to deem your suitability and medical ranking, that is, light duties and have rehabilitation. I didn’t do the tests; the physio knew I didn’t have enough strength in my left arm to bang out even one push-up. He had to fight my corner all over again at the reviews. He wouldn’t say so directly to me, but I knew he wasn’t happy with the way I was being treated. Even he was getting annoyed that someone so obviously not ready to be given the all-clear was being reduced to this.
The day of my wedding arrived and I was still doing rehabilitation. I took a few days’ leave. The wedding was great; my fiancée became my wife. She looked amazing. Most of my close pals from the military were there; the best man was my friend who had been injured in that ambush back in Nad-e Ali in 2008 during the siege. Although I had a great day, my dramas with the MOD were still lurking at the back of my mind. We all had a great piss-up. The only bit of trouble was caused by some bloke who’d been invited by a friend of my Mrs and had got pissed up. I only found out about it the next day. Another mate of mine re-educated him outside. Later that night the bloke fell out with the girl who’d asked him to accompany her; he nicked her car keys and crashed somewhere down the motorway. I was at the bar knocking back sambucas when two Old Bill walked in wearing their high-visibility jackets. I wasn’t too happy about it but some others quietly got a grip of it and they left. I think I was carried over the threshold as I don’t recall being able to walk. Married bliss or what! The honeymoon was put on hold until after I was finished in rehab. I certainly didn’t want that on my mind then.
It was now November and I was due to start my third rehabilitation course; don’t forget initially I was told by the doctor I was fine. He certainly wasn’t accurate with his diagnosis. I had met some other injured lads from combat who initially were at Headley Court but had been moved to Chilwell. I’d had enough of light duties and taking crap from idiots who’d never fired a weapon in anger in their lives, but I didn’t say anything. I was quite humble and carried myself and my regiment professionally during the time, although underneath it was different. I knew this would be my last course, even if I was not ready to leave. I had made my mind up if only for my own sanity. I was stronger but not up to my usual standard. I worked as hard as I could when it came to the tests; towards the end it was painful but I pushed through, beating everyone else on the course. Well, you’ve gotta say goodbye in style. Steve the physio gave me a glowing report on my work ethic. He knew I could have done with more time but he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. By the time I had wrapped up at Chilwell Barracks, Christmas was just around the corner. I had nearly two months of untaken leave and accrued days from being injured so I was going to be off until February 2011. Jesus, was I delighted to sign off and get the hell outta there.
After the debacle with the MOD and rehabilitation, I didn’t have much time for my regiment, 21, at the time. I needed some space so I took up private security work in Iraq. So, as before, instead of unwinding and enjoying time with my family like others did, this was to be my post-operational tour leave (POTL). Previously, I’d spent it in the Brecon Beacons, training for full-time selection. Now it would be spent in Basra and the huge oilfields that surrounded it, training up local security forces and mentoring them on the mission tasks they had been allocated to fulfil. What a great way to enjoy leave, back in a war zone. Jesus, some things come naturally to an Irishman and being adventurous is one of those things.
I also had another deadline; we were expecting our first-born child in March. Another security advisor partner was also expecting. He was preparing to leave two months early to help his wife. I thought he was a lunatic. I had an idea I’d leave it as late as possible so I could enjoy more time after the birth when I’d be needed the most. I’m not too sure if I had let my wife in on the plan!
As the south of Iraq, especially Basra, has a mostly Shi’ite population, it was more secure than Baghdad and the Sunni triangle north and west of Baghdad. We maintained a low profile; our Iraqi counterparts would do the driving and most of the security detail, with ex-pat oversight. It worked better than an all ex-pat security; to the locals that would have just had invaders written all over it. Although simply being on your own with local forces can be hazardous, especially the threat of kidnap and then ransom, what would be paid for your swift return by oil companies is a lifetime’s salary to most Iraqis. All you need is some of the local forces you’re working with to be in on the plan and the money and you’ll be lifted in an ambush. You always have to have your wits and your weapon about you. I carried US$1,000, a map, pistol, ammunition, food, water, med kit, passport, sat phone and mobile phone in what you call a ‘grab bag’. If the shit hits the fan, you grab it and get as much distance between you and the threat as possible. Put a shemagh (a Middle Eastern headdress) over you or nick some local clothing to blend in and hide until darkness falls. Then go into your escape and evasion plan and training. I don’t want to be on YouTube literally losing my head for those bastards; I’d put a bullet in me before capture if I thought it was the best option. That’s life in conflict zones; it comes with the territory.
I was operating mainly in the vast west Qurna oilfields which were being franchised out and undergoing prospecting. The oil companies’ engineers and geologists would decide where to go to look for the oil. They were hinting that this would be Iraq’s second largest oilfield. It was vast flat ground; parts of it were where the marsh people once resided, when the marshes had covered up to 90 per cent of the area. Saddam Hussein had drained the marshes after the uprising by these tribes; they were later abandoned by Western governments.
My time in Iraq was now coming to an end. Fatherhood was calling and I had to make my way back out of the place and return to the UK. I arrived home with a good two weeks to spare. The little fella was born by C-section, so I stepped up to nappy duty day and night while my wife recuperated after the surgery. I enjoyed that time; it was precious. We organized support for the family. I helped my wife back to health, with one eye on her recovery and the other on the emails coming in to me. Revolution was in the air in North Africa and my skills were in huge demand. Gaddafi was losing the plot, or there was a plot against him. Time will tell. I had a brief conversation with the Mrs again at the airport, waving me off to more troubled lands. Bless her for her support; I wouldn’t have done it without her. She was probably glad I was gone in some ways; men like me find it hard to settle when we’re waiting for the next war zone. Now it was Benghazi or bust. Whey hey!