Chin Up, Head Down

by Helena Tym

  We knew they were looking at us thinking, wondering - do we blame, do we hate? Should they justify? There is no justification needed - we don’t hate, can’t blame. They didn’t justify, they didn’t have to explain - to do so would have been disrespectful. Theirs is a shared sorrow, he was their brother, Zac and Steely’s brother, our son - their loss is our loss. I thought of the words I’d heard so many times from Cyrus, ‘Man the fuck up,’ so between us, we did. Names we’d heard we could now put faces to: Vaughny, Marshy, Tommo, Fun-Time, Stracs and Youngie.

  Slowly we all relaxed and they started to talk to us about Cyrus, recounting stories of times they dressed up as women and went out on the town; Cyrus wearing impossibly tiny fuchsia-pink hot-pants and a glittery boob-tube; the pre-Afghanistan party where they had all dressed as cow-boys sporting false handle-bar moustaches. The laughter that radiated out of him everywhere he went, the ribbings he gave them. Marshy told us of the time Cyrus took the laces out of his trainers, cut out the zip of his jeans and removed all the buttons from his shirt, leaving him with nothing to wear on a weekend trip away. The angrier Marshy got, the louder they all laughed. Of all of them it is Marshy who looks, and possibly is, the youngest. He is tall and slim with mousey blonde hair and has a gentle Devonshire accent. They all seem tall, these boys - perhaps because I’m only five foot four everyone seems to tower above me.

  They admired Cyrus’s wiry strength as he was a light machine-gunner - it’s not a thing I’d want to carry too far, weighing 8.5 kgs with 100 rounds, a 5.56-calibre weapon also known as a SAW - a squad automatic weapon. It’s a gun designed to be employed by an individual soldier with or without assistance - an infantry support weapon used to fire short bursts. Tommo is a light machine-gunner and he is well over six foot tall, wide-chested, square-chinned - I guess it’s a testament to Cyrus’s tenacity and stamina that he was one too.

  They all agreed that Paul Mervis’s tribute couldn’t have said it better: ‘The darker and colder the night, the bigger was his smile. The hotter and longer the day, the louder was his laugh.’ It seemed that that was what they were all going to miss most - his sense of humour, his laugh and his huge smile. He seemed so alive when they talked of him, his antics still made them laugh - but there was emptiness in that laughter.

  Rob thanked them for the flowers they had asked to be sent to Cyrus’s funeral - a large floral tribute with the number 10 and the word ‘Platoon’ in green and red chrysanthemums. Apparently, when Leon Smith went back out to Afghanistan, he had talked about the funeral, saying one of the things he remembered most was all the beautiful young women, dressed in black, looking stunningly glamorous but totally devastated. He said that it was rather like being at a photo-shoot for OK or Hello Magazine. It was true, and Cyrus would have loved it.

  The uncertainty of how the family of a fallen comrade will react must be so hard. I guess that some families will never be able to look those men in the eye without feeling some sort of resentment. I have no resentment - just sorrow. I know that any one of them could have been killed - it is just the ‘luck of the draw’, as Cyrus used to say. ‘If your time is up, then it’s up, and there’s not a lot you can do about it - you just have to believe that you’re going to be one of the lucky ones,’ he had said before he left. I wish he had been one of the lucky ones. I wish we weren’t here talking to these men, who have seen such awful things, who were such a huge part of his life, and who found it in themselves to carry on the fight. I so wanted him to be here, laughing and joking with them, not just a memory.

  A tall, blonde man approached on crutches. His three-quarter-length trousers revealed his prosthetic leg. I didn’t recognise him at first - the last time I had seen him he was in a wheelchair. It was Willo (Matt Wilson). I was surprised that he was so tall; the last time we met he was so hunched - and now he had regained weight. He looked good, but tired. He gave us a hug, it was good to see him. I wish Cyrus was with us.

  They kicked us out eventually, together with the rest of the Riflemen who had eked out their last drinks. Several rounds of Sambuca were bought - strange how so many of them grimaced as they downed their shots. I assumed that they would all have liked the drink. It was Cyrus’s favourite and I’m sure it will always remind them of him. He used to make Steely drink it, so he could laugh at his face as it burned its way down his throat. Many a hangover was caused by Sambuca.

  The next morning, after breakfast, Ian met us and took us across to the Officer’s Mess where we were going to be presented with The Elizabeth Cross by Viscount Brookeborough of Colebrooke, County Fermanagh. Tea and biscuits, in china cups with saucers, and nowhere to put them down as everything is antique and I didn’t want to mark the surfaces. Ridiculous. Fancy worrying about making a mark on some furniture when we are just about to meet the Viscount.

  The Elizabeth Cross is traditionally presented to the next of kin and that person is determined by rules far older than I. The father is first in line, so it was Rob who was presented with the Cross, otherwise it would be the mother then any siblings in order of age, unless the soldier had a child, in which case they are next of kin, followed by the spouse then the parents and siblings. Quite complicated and I can understand why there is so much confusion when marriages have split, and parents are not sure who is actually next of kin, rather than just assuming they are because they always have been on any forms that have been filled out in the past. I had always put myself as next of kin simply because I was the one who was around at home more, and I suppose usually I’d filled in the forms. Rob accepted the Cross on behalf of us all as a family.

  There were two Crosses in the box - one large, for formal attire, and one smaller for everyday wear, if you were the sort of person who wore a suit to work. I know what I’d rather have pinned to my lapel - but that is never to be. Is it an honour? I’m not sure. A piece of silver doesn’t make it all better and it’s not the sort of thing that Rob or I would wear everyday - and even if one did, only those in the know would actually understand its significance. Something else to put in the chest underneath his photos in the front room.

  Again, it’s all wrong. He should be here receiving his operational medal, not us receiving the Elizabeth Cross. I don’t want silver - I want him.

  At 11 o’clock, inside a huge canvas building that looked rather like an aircraft hangar, the Memorial Service was held. The whole battalion plus all their families, dignitaries and the bereaved were there. We, the bereaved and injured, had seats towards the front; everyone else stood. It was crowded, and searching through the faces I strained to see ones I recognised, but there were none. There was a strong wind blowing and the gusts crossing the top of the canvas roof made a sound like running feet. I wonder if I was the only one to think this was strange and perhaps a little unnerving. I don’t believe in ghosts but it certainly sounded as though people were running across the roof.

  2 Rifles lost thirteen during their six-month deployment as part of 19 Light Brigade in Afghanistan:

  Rifleman Adrian Sheldon, 25 - 7th May 2009

  Rifleman Cyrus Thatcher, 19 - 2nd June 2009

  Lieutenant Paul Mervis, 27 - 12th June 2009

  Corporal Johathan Horne, 28 - 10th July 2009

  Rifleman Daniel Simpson, 20 - 10th July 2009

  Rifleman Joseph Murphy, 18 - 10th July 2009

  Rifleman William Aldridge, 18 - 10th July 2009

  Rifleman James Backhouse, 18 - 10th July 2009

  Rifleman Aminiasi Toge, 26 - 16th July 2009

  Captain Mark Hale, 42 - 13th August 2009

  Rifleman Daniel Wilde, 19 - 13th August 2009

  Serjeant Paul McAleese, 29 - 20th August 2009

  Acting Serjeant Stuart McGrath, 28 - 16th September 2009

  Thirteen families, mourning the loss of their precious sons. Some had come from so far away - there are a lot of Fijians in the British Army and they too were there to pray
for the souls of those lost. Halfway through the service there was a lot of shuffling of boots and then several Fijian men and a couple of women moved to the front and started to sing a traditional Fijian lament. It sent shivers up and down my spine - no music just small bits of paper to read from and the most amazing harmony of voices soaring up to the ceiling, filling the whole place with the sound of their pride, pain and love. They really are massive, these Fijian men and there was not a dry eye amongst them, or the congregation. So beautiful, so sad, so poignant - such feeling in those words. More tears on another sad day to add to our collection.

  Elliott met us outside. He wanted to introduce us to his family, their joy at his safe return marred by the loss of their son’s best friend. I wished we were that family, there to see their boy home and safe. Their pain for us was obvious, but I was determined to let them know that I was pleased at their son’s safe return.

  More food, tea and coffee before the Medals Parade, so time to gather ourselves and focus on the next stage of the day. It is a huge base and we seemed to spend an awful lot of time walking from one side of it to the other. I wonder if this is partly to keep us moving and therefore not thinking too much, or it’s just the size of the battalion that I’d not really thought about before, but we were on automatic pilot anyway.

  It’s very cold in Northern Ireland, especially in November, when the wind cuts across the fields running down from the Mourne Mountains. I don’t think I was warm at any stage during our visit. We reached the parade field and there were marquees for the families, which offered some protection from the wind.

  Over five hundred men and women stood to attention on that field. The wind cut across them but no-one moved; they waited while Field Marshal The Lord Edwin Bramall stood on the dais and spoke with a voice that did not tremble or fall, piercing the wind, telling them how proud he was of them, what a sacrifice they as a battalion had made, and that they should hold their heads high and be proud of what they had achieved for the Afghan people and for the peoples of the free world. His words echoed around the parade field - words of pride and glory. He spoke with eloquence and beauty, and all were moved. There was no other sound apart from the wind rippling against the marquees. It wasn’t just his age and rank that captivated everyone; his words were perfect and encompassed every emotion there that day.

  All the injured were given their medals first, presented by the Field Marshal who is one of the last Field Marshals alive, as there is no such rank any more, and Lieutenant General Sir Nick Parker, Colonel Commandant of 2 Rifles and Deputy Commander of ISAF, whom we’d met at Lyneham only a few months ago.

  They stood there, solid and proud, those soldiers, while the wind brought horizontal rain to whip their legs and faces, and the dignitaries moved among them, shaking their hands and talking quietly to each and every one. Not until the last medal had been presented and the ‘quick march’ order was given did they move, and then as one they turned to face their families, saluted and quick marched off the field. Together Rob and I held hands and cried. He wasn’t there saluting proudly to the crowd. How is it that he is not there? Oh God, it’s just too sad to bear. I didn’t think I had anything left to break, but we stood there and broke all over again into thousands of pieces. Perhaps it is true - he is not coming home.

  Later we were taken to the Community Centre and served more tea. By now Steely decided that if he were to see another cup of tea again he would scream. Still, you couldn’t say that we were not extremely well looked after by everyone we met. Elliott, Malou, Marsh and several others were there too. I’m not sure if they asked to be present or if they just decided to turn up, but it was nice to see familiar faces. We’d briefly met Malou the evening before; he was one of the soldiers who hadn’t been receiving food parcels and Cyrus had asked us if we could send him some bits and pieces, as it upset him that Malou didn’t get anything addressed specifically to him. We continued to send Malou parcels, even after Cyrus was killed and until they came home in September. It was the least we could do, and in every parcel Rob wrote him a note. He told Rob he had kept every one of those notes, and that he would always keep them as they meant so much to him. That was nice - but again, edged with such sadness.

  Malou’s eulogy to Cyrus read:

  “I don’t know where to start or what to say, but what I know is that we will miss you a lot. We will never forget you - we will always remember you. You were more than just a friend in the Platoon. You were always there when people felt down; you cared about people. You never wanted any return on the kindness you and your family provided.

  When I wasn’t receiving any parcels, your parents sent me some to keep me going. For that I thank you.

  May your soul rest in peace; may God be with you. We will always love and remember you for who you really are. Mate, when we meet again, the fun will really begin. Goodbye, Thatch mate, it was an honour to know you.”

  Then the Field Marshal was ushered in and he presented us with a silver bugle. He was such a nice old man, who had fought in several wars and was genuinely sorry for our loss - sorry for so many losses in the past. He is well practised in this sorrow. No consolation though, this silverware - just another reminder of what we’ve lost, something else to put on a shelf and have to polish and dust. I know I sound ungrateful, but I’m not. It’s just not what I want; more reminders of what I don’t have any more.

  As we stood talking to some of the soldiers, Ali Gordon (G) came in and introduced himself as one of Cyrus’s friends from 10 Platoon. They had become good friends and Cyrus and Elliott had spent a lot of time with him and his young family. It is very odd meeting people that you’ve heard so much about under these circumstances, as no one is quite sure how to approach us or what to say when they do. He asked if he could bring his family in to meet us, his wife Liza, youngest daughter Lucy and Morgan, his eight-year-old daughter, who had something for us. She had bought a box of Hero chocolates that she was going to give Cyrus when he came back, but instead she spent all night making us a card for him.

  She was so sad, this little girl with her long blonde hair, wearing a woollen hat and winter coat, and there was nothing I could do to help. I wished there was. She was so completely devastated by his death - they had been great friends. How could we explain this to her? How can this little girl be so sad? There was nothing I can do to help. It was so awful to see her little face distorted with pain and disbelief. I guess I’d not really thought how much his death would affect those people he touched in his short time here in Ireland. All she could say was that he’d promised to come home and marry her. Oh God, Morgan, I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know - I’m so sorry, my sweet.

  I promised that I’d send her a photo of him, as the only one she has she cut out of the newspaper. She is only eight, with so much pain and sadness now resting on her little shoulders. ‘He’d promised to come home,’ was all she could say through her tears, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to answer. How on earth could I help her through? In my own selfish way I guess I thought that only we could feel this much pain, but looking at her little face so sad and confused, I knew then that I was wrong. He was so good with children - well, anyone he met - and made them feel special and that they were the only person in the world. How could we have lost that?

  When we got back we sent her a photo in a silver frame. I hope she liked it. I hope that in due course she will be able to look back fondly at the time she knew him, keep all the nice things in her heart and move away from the horror of loss - that she keeps his memory close, hearing him laugh as she looks at that smile. I hope for her, I hope for me, I hope for Rob and the boys.

  That evening, back on the parade field, there were fireworks and the battalion band. Stirring stuff, all those bugles, bagpipes and drums. I think the sound of a bugle will always make the hairs stand up on my neck. Pride and pain in a clear pure note.

  Later that evening, after we�
�d been thrown out of the Rifleman’s Bar at closing time, we were heading back to the house when Leon Smith asked if we’d like one more drink in the Serjeant’s Mess. Why not, who knows when we’ll next see him? It was quiet in the mess but the bar was still open, so with closing time looming, Leon went off to get enough drinks for us all to last a while.

  It was good for us all to have the chance to talk to him. I think he needed to get things off his chest too. He talked with fondness of Cyrus, both as a soldier and a man. He reiterated what we had heard in the Rifleman’s Bar. He talked about Cyrus’s fitness - that he was fast, agile, strong, fazed by nothing, completely reliable. His dedication was total - no order was too hard, no command ever questioned, and he was thoughtful and compassionate. He was a complete soldier, including his ability to keep morale high - which was part of the reason Leon had picked him as part of his Quick Reaction Force. This is perhaps partly responsible for his feelings of guilt. He had chosen him that day; perhaps that’s why he said at Paul’s funeral that he would never forgive himself.

  Listening to him talk, I was filled with pride. I’d read the tributes, heard the stories, seen the love for him in these soldiers’ eyes; but the truth is that it should be him here, sharing their tales of war and comradeship, and collecting medals - not us, his broken and devastated family.

  Steely was very quiet, and when Leon went off to the bar he took the opportunity to follow him. They were gone a long time but when they returned, Steely seemed slightly easier. It wasn’t until much later that I learnt that he had asked Leon what had happened in Afghanistan. He didn’t want to know the gory details, just the events leading up to the explosion. I think it helped him, as he seemed to accept it for what it was, and move forward a little. He needed to hear it from Leon, and I’m glad he did. I know that Zac would never have been able to ask those questions out loud. He has shut down, I can’t reach him, and he deals with his pain in his own way by locking himself away. It makes me feel useless and I hope one day he will feel able to talk to me - allow me in. I don’t know if he and Steely ever discussed what was said, and I often wonder where Steely stores these secrets and if they will raise their ugly heads one day. I know he hurts as much as everybody else, but he appears to be level-headed, and is able to use the tools Cyrus left in his letter, take those words and make them into something positive. It must be very hard for them to live in the footsteps of their brother, but I know over time this will change. They will start making their own imprints, living their lives as their own people again. I hope there won’t be any resentment mixed in with their sorrow.