One Price of Peace
I have been crying today thinking of the young man, aged 23 locked up,in a prison remand cell awaiting assessment by the,Mental Health Authorities. Just about a year ago he reentered civilian life after 4 years in the army, and having survived 2 tours of duty in Afghanistan.
I still recall the horror I felt when I first met him and another Veteran of about the same age and heard them calmly discussing how they found and marked IEDs for disposal. To have gone through such experiences, and still only then 22,
Since then he has managed to work and proudly maintain his partner and young son. He has had flashbacks of course; we have twice been out in the early hours of the morning in response to his cries for help. On one occasion he had set up an Observation Post in a hedge to observe the Taliban, This in an East Yorkshire village.
Maybe he will this time get the help he so desperately needs, and in time return to a semblance of normal life. A semblance because there is no cure for PTSD.
That is why I cried this morning, and why I wear my Poppy with pride, and why I stand on the streets collecting money to help support these damaged people and their families.
That is also why I regard politicians with contempt and disdain; they who will fight to the last drop of another's blood, then flaunt themselves at the peace table.
There but for fortune could have been me. I am one of that band of brothers: I am a British Army Veteran. I am proud of that fact,
Some gave all.
I am lucky to have tears to shed for my young friend, indeed for them all
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