A Staffordshire Morning

I read a friends article, on the list of those he knew who had fallen…It’s brilliant. 

I knew I carried a list, I just hadn’t realised it until a little while ago when I visited the National Memorial Arboretum in Staffordshire, UK.  If you ever find yourself in Alrewas in Staffordshire, have a look. The whole site has amazing , fascinating and respectful memorials to ships lost at sea, police officers killed on duty and even a plot commemorating those executed in Word War 1. 

I stopped there to view the newly dedicated EOD memorial for the fallen of my ‘tribe’. It’s a great piece and a fine testament to those men and women. 

I then idly, and with no great expectation, wandered over the armed forces memorial. It is a huge structure sitting on top of a small rise with some sculptures showing a dead soldier being passed up by his comrades. I’m not normally a huge one for such symbolism, but it works here. At eleven AM on 11 Nov each year a shaft of light illuminates the wreath at the centre of the plot. It’s a striking place.

But back to the list. 

The power of the memorial is its simplicity. The names of men and women who died in the service of the UK are grouped in years by service in the order they died. No rank. No unit. No date. Just initials and name. 

As I read forward from my first day in the Army a name hit me, a friend killed on ‘our’ first armed adventure to the Middle East. I was moved to his sub unit and replaced him. That night in January 1991 I slept where he had slept the night before. 

I read on. Another name. Then another. Another. Another. Each name brought a shock, a memory and a smile and generally then a shake of the head. The effect of reading a long, long list, not knowing you were about to, is sobering and moving and grounding and saddening. I was moved to quiet tears as I read the names of so many men and women I knew who had died in the ‘half peace’ of the last thirty years. 

Foxy, a gentle soul who cared too much. Killed in Ulster. 

Bob, blown up years before and finally succumbed to his demons years after. He was great man we all admired but none of us could really reach. 

Alex, a great bloke full of laughter and incredibly fit, killed in a paragliding accident. We were told of his passing by text. Three of us who served with him, and about to go out to the local pub for a quiz night, got the text at the same second. We drank a bottle of Bushmills in his honour that night and laughed and cried. We mostly stared into space. 

Steph, bright, brave, opinionated and scruffy, was killed in a parachuting accident in front of me. There are no words for having to see his young wife and daughter that evening then commanding the bearer party at his funeral and being proud we gave him a good send off. All the while, I wished he could see how much work his mates put into the event - he’d have laughed his head off seeing how much polishing they had to do because of him. 

Nick, run down by a drunk driver.  A terrible, pointless waste that still makes me angry. 

Brad. A young lad I knew from another EOD unit. Funny, confident, and boyish, he was killed doing his job in the Balkans. Bad luck got him. 

Paul, an amazing presence killed by mortars in Basra helping my young soldiers under fire. Brave as a lion and unrelenting in seeking excellence he was the wise old head his men adored. 

Paul, James and Scott. Killed together just ahead of us. I never met them. They died clearing a path for my team to move through. Their company commander is a friend. Saying thank you and I’m sorry still seems hollow and empty 13 years on. Standing on the ramp in Basra as they started their flight home I cried at the sadness of their loss and the unborn children they left. 

Stan - grievously injured weeks later. Seeing him in hospital in Iraq. Knowing nothing could be done and forever grateful to the doctors who decided to fly him home alive for his family to say goodbye. His son is thirteen now. His Dad never got to see him. Stan was due to fly home to share the 20 week scan, on the day he flew home as a casualty. 

And on down the years. Chris, Gaz, Dan, Dan, Oz, Brett, Lisa, Dave, and the list goes on. 

Mercifully fewer of late - I’m fifty now and a civilian. At our age friends die of normal things. After a decent chance at life. 

They shall grow not old. They died living. 

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