Battleworn Read Free Page B

short-lived, and the trips away came to an abrupt end after my hotel bar bill far exceeded what it should have. This pushed me one step closer to my decision to join the army.
    Growing up in the 1990s wasn’t without its problems; there were a lot of distractions for young boys and girls. The country was still angry about hard decisions made to decide how we would move forward economically. Ecstasy and the ‘Mad-Chester’ drug culture were rife, and along with everyone else, I got caught up in the glamour of it all. I would sometimes hide out in my bedroom, listening endlessly to the Stone Roses’ ‘Waterfall’ whilst puffing on a bong. I inhaled as if my life depended on it. Those were some of the darkest days of my life. Smoking marijuana did not suit my personality. I became withdrawn and paranoid, spending three months sponging off the state. I recall times when I was so stoned that I couldn’t even be bothered to make the short walk to sign on for my ‘free’ money.
    Gang violence, along with the football hooligan culture, was also prevalent. A sense of belonging to anything other than further education somehow made an awkward adolescence bearable. I had enrolled at my local college, with dreams of studying business law. Suffice to say that smoking weed all day came in really useful! I couldn’t concentrate, and I struggled to remember what day it was – much less be able to study. It’s fair to say that I dabbled with a life in ‘shitsville’, and I didn’t like it. Escaping it made me mentally tough, and I somehow managed to drag my sorry arse to the army careers office, kicking and screaming all the way.
    Every council estate or housing scheme across the UK is a ‘target rich’ recruiting area for the other ranks of the British military. Most soldiers hail from deprived areas, and that’s no bad thing. I was ambitious, without being sure where I was going, and inquisitive about everything, without being sure what it was that I wanted to know. All the doubt and arrogance was soon drummed out of me during the unknown number of hours I spent on my belt buckle, crawling through mud and cow shit.
    More often than not, I was running up and down the quarry hills. We had the luxury of physical training instructors who also trained the young guys who wanted to be paratroopers. You would never push yourself as hard or as far as the army pushes you. You stop thinking like a civilian and start thinking like a soldier. I had grown up on a council estate, believing like an idiot that skipping off school was clever; it wasn’t. The bravado that I engaged in as a teenager just camouflaged my lack of confidence.
    I was definitely looking for something other than the humdrum of a conventional job. I went through the mind-numbing day-in, day-out drills and instruction in a daze. In the end, I wanted nothing in return. I came to see that becoming a soldier had taken me into a world where I could make my mark. I’d grown an inch taller by straightening my backbone, and I no longer lacked confidence. That lack is the curse of the working class. I was interested in everything. I opted to become a combat medic technician (CMT). The word combat did not appear in the descriptions of any other jobs open to females back then, and that was the reason why I chose to become a CMT. That may sound crazy to people, just as it does to me now. I laugh to myself as I recall it.
    In the next instant, my daydreaming ends, interrupted by the order to ‘mount up’ on the vehicles. Remnants of my tea cast away, I quickly jump up, helmet back on, chinstrap fastened.
    The engines are running, and we are on the move again. It’s late; the orange sunset lasts only seconds as we are cast into twilight. Night vision goggles (NVGs) are fitted, and night discipline begins. Orders have come from higher: we are heading into the smoke and gunfire around the district centre of Nad-e Ali.
    My initial impression of atmospherics here are grim –