Down Among the Weeds

by Harry Beaves

  As the Mindfulness course progressed my anxiety and hypervigilance continued to worsen. One Saturday I was joining Philip at Swanage and Wareham Rugby Club to watch a charity game. It was a sunny afternoon and could not have been better. Despite this I was full of trepidation anticipating traffic jams and accidents that just couldn’t happen. I reached the ground and met Philip and his friends on what could not have been a more happy and relaxed day. Despite this I was overwhelmed with anxiety – something might happen and I convinced myself that I had some sort of terrible tummy problem. I went home and was only reassured when I was back within those safe walls again.

  I had always been able to talk about my time in Northern Ireland, but invariably, when I did, it involved a good yarn about some event that was not psychologically troubling. I had never spoken to anyone about the tension, the fear and the inescapable stress of those four months. I didn’t want to think of them and I felt they were still locked safely away, but certain things had always stirred memories and responses and caused a ‘ping’ on the submarine. I never stopped noticing what might be suspicious damage to cars (a hypervigilance symptom), as I had done on that evening with my father. (See Chapter 18.) Barbara is a very good cook and on those occasions when she used almonds or almond essence it would ring alarm bells and I would be reminded of the unmistakable smell of Co-op sugar. Then there was the time when we were watching one of the Rambo films where, in a particularly far-fetched scene, Sylvester Stallone covered himself in mud and hid against a river bank. You could not see him until he blinked when you immediately noticed the whites of his eyes. With Stallone covered in river mud like that I was immediately reminded of staring at but not recognising David Storrey because his body was covered in mud and hidden in the same way by the debris from the explosion. On Remembrance Day David Storrey and Bob Hope were foremost in my mind, and during the silence each year I would be transported back to that dreadful scene in the river bed.

  As Barbara was driving me to one of the Mindfulness sessions I found myself concentrating on the foreign number plate of the car that we were following. It was Irish, which roused my suspicions, and as it turned off I made a mental note. I knew that this behaviour was unusual and unnecessary so I asked Barbara if she had noticed it, but she was driving the car and talking to me so there was no reason for her to have done so.

  She dropped me off in a persistent drizzle and I joined the group, but I felt uncomfortable. I was anxious, but I didn’t know why. Murphy was on my shoulder and I was on the lookout as I had an overwhelming feeling that ‘something might happen’. We settled into a meditation exercise concentrating on self-awareness, in particular awareness of our breathing. The leader was saying, ‘… and as the breath comes in be aware of the sound of the rain outside… and as the breath comes in be aware of your pulse and your heartbeat…’

  I was slowly transported back to a time in Belfast, in an ambush under a hedgerow in Milltown Cemetery in a minor incident that I have not previously described. The rain was running off the bushes and down my face, but I couldn’t move or make a noise. I was straining every sense for sounds of gunmen approaching down the path, but the sound of my heartbeats and my breathing were deafening. As the Mindfulness leader routinely ended the exercise I sat cold, shivering and shaking uncontrollably with tears running down my face. I went across to find a glass of water and one of the group came over to see if I was OK. The leader joined us and gently led me outside and we slowly walked around the building as the feelings began to subside. It was a terrifying flashback and the final reminder that somehow I had to get to the root of my problems.

  I needed help quickly. The NHS and Combat Stress could not provide it, so that evening Barbara phoned her sister, Gwyneth, for details of Stephen Craske’s colleague, Dr Graham Kidd.

  Chapter 39

  And Finally…

  Dr Graham Kidd is a psychiatrist who specialises in the treatment of those suffering from post-traumatic stress by using a technique known as Eye Movement Desensitising and Reprogramming (EMDR). He is an easygoing man who immediately won my confidence, partly because he had served for a time as a doctor in the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC) and partly because I found him a very likeable person. Right from the start we were speaking the same language and I felt that from his military service he had a first-hand understanding of the feelings that I had experienced. This reinforced my view that only a serviceman truly understands the stresses that other servicemen experience. He had actually been with the RAMC in Musgrave Park Hospital in 1972 when we were in Andersonstown and was familiar with the names of the areas and the roads that I was talking about. By the most remarkable coincidence we share the same birthday, 27th October 1947, but this sometimes got in the way. Several times when he was reasoning with me over impossible events that were making me worry he would say, ‘Ah, but what are the chances of that really happening?’ My reply was always, ‘But what are the chances of finding a psychiatrist with the same date of birth as me?’ He would always smile, but perhaps he should have replied, ‘Well, if you think that way, you should do the lottery!’

  My layman’s understanding of how EMDR is used to treat traumatic events is as follows: imagine the brain as a computer that never stops working, whether we are conscious or sleeping, from birth to death. All the time it is receiving information, processing it, evaluating it and either acting on it or storing it in the memory. When we experience a traumatic event the volume of information received by the brain is more than it can process and evaluate at the time so some information remains stored, without the brain having evaluated it logically. The lack of proper processing can cause the perception of the event to be wrong and make memories of the traumatic event very unpleasant to recall.

  EMDR seeks to make the brain reconsider those events, fully evaluate them and store the memories in a manner that sees them in a logical perspective when recalled. To achieve this, the brain is stimulated into action at the same time as the traumatic events are being relived. The brain can be stimulated by focussing on an object which is moved from left to right with the eyes following it. The active brain then re-evaluates the events and stores them logically, so that they can eventually be recalled with less distress.

  In my case the most significant event was the deaths of David Storrey and Bob Hope. Dr Kidd moved a pen tip repeatedly from left to right and I followed it with my eyes. At the same time I relived in my mind the detailed sequence of events from hearing the explosion to discovering the bodies in the stream, summoning help and returning to safety in Casement Park. This was the desensitising phase of EMDR. We repeated it many times and after each I was asked how I felt about the memories. Surprisingly, the images gradually became less sharp and less disturbing.

  At this stage Dr Kidd reasoned with me about the events that I had recalled, trying to help my busy brain process and store the memories logically. This was the reprogramming phase of EMDR.

  ‘How did you feel?

  ‘Guilty.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the bomb was meant for me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was the one they wanted, I was the one in the Battery who was giving them the most grief.’

  ‘How do you know that? How did they know when you, personally, might cross the ground where the bomb was? Major Storrey was the BC. To get him was like capturing a valuable chess piece, far more important than you, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Perhaps, but the night before the bomb, shots were fired at the sentry when I was on immediate standby and I should have crashed out into Riverdale in hot pursuit, straight across where the bomb was laid.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because Bdr Tolson was already in Riverdale and he was able to do the follow-up without going near the bomb.’

  ‘So, Bdr Tolson dealt with everything satisfactorily and was unscathed?’

  ‘I suppose so, but Ray Harrison and I knew that the route through that area was risky and had told our troo
ps not to use it.’

  ‘But, then didn’t David Storrey make his own choice?’

  ‘Maybe, but then he didn’t normally patrol and wasn’t as tactically aware as Ray and me. Besides, I should have done more for him and Bob Hope.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Given them first aid.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I ran back to Casement Park to get the medic and an ambulance.’

  ‘How badly injured were they?’

  ‘Bob Hope was killed by the explosion. David Storrey had a shrapnel wound to the lung and probably died in the ambulance.’

  ‘So, what could you have done?’

  ‘Nothing, I suppose.’

  ‘But you went for skilled medical help as quickly as you could, what more could you have done?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I just wish I had been able to…’

  That, in essence, was what happened each time I was treated. Until then, I had rejected that reasoning in my own mind, but, after the ‘desensitising’ process, I began to accept it and feel comfortable with the logic that Dr Kidd presented.

  I also spoke about two recurring dreams that I had at times over the years. Both were in a military setting and were unpleasant and disturbing without being nightmares.

  In the first I was digging a hole in the dark in an unfamiliar area that, though I never realised it at the time, was like Riverdale. I had things to bury in the hole that I didn’t want others to discover, though, strangely, I can’t say what they were. With the things buried, but the hole only partly filled, people would pass by and talk to me. I would stand guiltily by the partially-filled hole, hoping the buried items would not be discovered, but the passers-by would be completely unaware and carry on.

  In the second dream I was on a military exercise or deployment. Before leaving camp in circumstances like this everyone is given a comprehensive list of what to pack, so that nothing is forgotten. On the deployment some things are used or lost and a few things are always acquired. Coming home you simply pack your kit and are told that certain bags must be checked in at specific times and places. The problem in my dream was that I had always accumulated so much stuff since leaving home that I could not get it into my luggage and somehow I had to find a way of getting it back. I kept asking myself how I was going to do this, but the dream always ended before I got home.

  I had never realised it, but now it seems obvious that memories of Northern Ireland were the things I was burying in the first dream and they were also the things that I had accumulated and couldn’t get into my military baggage in the second. These dreams were also treated with EMDR.

  In the days between treatments I gradually began to feel less anxious and more in control. Other events from Northern Ireland were treated in the same way and, towards the end, we did the same practice with the memories of my mother’s and Heather’s last days.

  After six sessions I was feeling much better.

  The framework provided by military life had allowed me to keep the lid on my problems for almost thirty years. But I missed the common bond, the trust and reliability of military men, the rugged humour and the organised life. I had not realised how much this supported me and there had been nothing to replace it in civilian life. At last the submarine is back in deep water. Now time will tell if Dr Kidd has completely destroyed it.

  * * *

  Which is where I am today, able to deal happily with the normal trials and tribulations of life and the many aches and pains that go with getting older, and occasionally calling on the help of Ginnie Dobson, another EMDR practitioner.

  Bill McKenna wrote:

  Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in one pretty and preserved piece, but to slide across the line broadside, thoroughly used up, worn out, leaking oil, shouting GERONIMO!

  I’ve been leaking oil for some time, but I’m not yet ready for the big slide. As an arthritic cardiac patient with a prostate problem I can safely say that I am enjoying the worst of health with a twenty-four-year-old mind struggling inside a body with ninety-eight-year-old joints.

  I still suffer anxieties, but they are in check and are generally related to age and infirmity rather than as a result of traumatic events. I can comfortably read and recall military accounts which I would previously have found harrowing. I can choose to do what I want to do and to give in to my long-held phobias and obsessive traits, if I need to, without a sense of guilt.

  Article 25 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights recognises the right to housing, which I interpret as meaning that every man must have a shed. Now that I have at last reached retirement age I can withdraw into my shed without guilt and use my time, retirement’s most precious asset, to indulge my hobbies or just to potter around. I can sit and think, or just sit… I can take exercise, walk the dog to the limits of our arthritis and enjoy that same blue sky that I loved as a boy. And when it gets dark, I can come indoors and search the internet for lost relatives, ever broadening my knowledge of my ancestors and my family tree. I can extend my love for wood to the furniture at Kingston Lacy, where I am a National Trust volunteer. My interest in Rugby is still very much alive as a fan. I have had a season ticket for Bath for more than twenty years and I remain staunchly one-eyed in my support. I can also enjoy club rugby at Swanage and Wareham RFC, still played in the spirit and style that I so valued in my playing days, even though my youngest son is now officially a veteran.

  In retirement in the workshop. Picture Beatrice Dopita.

  In retirement selling tools.

  In retirement. People ask me for selfies even at Bath Rugby. Gavin Henson.

  In Retirement. As a National Trust volunteer at Kingston Lacy.

  And what of my relationship with Murphy? Well, while I was drafting this final chapter I woke one morning feeling anxious, for no apparent reason. That evening we were going to the theatre in Southampton, but, other than that, I had nothing unusual planned. So I told myself to stop worrying as nothing was going to happen and I felt better as the day wore on. Walking from the car park to the theatre that evening, a bus was approaching so we stopped at the kerb and waited to cross the road. As it passed, I felt a blow to my forehead and, still standing, I realised that I had been struck by one of its wing mirrors. The bus pulled up at a stop only a few yards further on and I walked up to it to tell the driver that his vehicle had hit me. As I took my hat off, blood poured down my face from a cut to my forehead. Someone called an ambulance and I was treated on the spot.

  That morning I felt something might go wrong, but to have suggested that I would be run over by a bus would have been just stupid, wouldn’t it? Is it any wonder that I am still so hard to convince? I think I can safely say my relationship with Murphy and his ‘law’ is as strong as ever, which probably means that I will not die in my sleep!

  More recently I have had a recurrence of my heart problems which has obliged me to think seriously of the future. I have sadly become aware that I now wear my dark suit more often to funerals than to weddings, so it’s time to take stock and attempt to put my life in some sort of order. I have always considered myself a Christian despite the fact that I am only an occasional churchgoer. I believe being a Christian is as much about the way you lead your life and, if I didn’t do so well in my youth, I have tried to live my later years in a much more Christian manner. I wonder what comes next? I suppose I believe in some sort of afterlife. Certainly I’ve always wanted to see my mum again. But, how will she recognise me as I was only fourteen when she died?

  Despite the attentions of Murphy, I count myself lucky to have had a very good life, but should I say ‘sorry’ to those I have hurt or upset along the way? Perhaps, in this age of recycling, I should start by apologising to the organ donor organisations as, approaching the line broadside and leaking oil, there can be little left of my body that is worth passing on. I have always maintained that it is better to wear out than rust out so, sadly, few of my organs would benefit anyone
.

  With age is supposed to come wisdom and I suppose I must reluctantly accept that it would be foolish to ride a bicycle again after I had been drinking. We now have an increasing band of grandchildren, the first of whom was born on 29th February 2012, thus perpetuating my theory that the unusual happens to my family. I love them dearly and am immensely proud of them all, so what words of wisdom could I offer?

  The next generation with Heather’s grand-children, yet to leak oil. Rosie Beaves, Oliver Curr, Olivia Beaves, Poppy Beaves, Sophie Curr, Isabelle Beaves.

  My old friend Kipling gave wise advice in ‘If ’, but I would begin by saying, ‘Never forget that kindness is the most important virtue because unless you treat people with kindness you have no right to expect kindness in return and without kindness none of the other virtues are possible.’ Secondly, as Mark Twain almost said, ‘Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than the things you did’, so Carpe Diem!

  But they have been born into a hard world and they will need guidance. They will need someone to set them on their path through life that avoids its many pitfalls. Most importantly, they will need someone to help them to distinguish between mischief and trouble in the hope that at some time in the distant future they too will achieve that glorious broadside slide across the line.

  That person could be me.

  GERONIMO!

  Appendix 1

  The John West Pedigree