Category: Topical

Role Models…

On February 13, 2018

I have a colleague who spent a full and busy career in the Police, operating at every level and all over the country but specialising in London and the South East of England. A large proportion of his work involved dealing with young gang members and the crimes they committed. He is adamant that a major part of the problem that fuels gang membership is the lack of credible male role models within these communities. It is this, he insists that pushes young individuals into the hands of the very people who will destroy any possibility of a normal life.

Our conversation got me thinking about role models throughout my own life and in particular, within my military career. My first exposure to individuals I sought to emulate and aspire to be like was on my Royal Marines’ Potential Recruits’ Course; the PRC. This was essentially a few days spent at the Commando Training Centre where the Royal Marines got to take a closer look at you while you got a small taster of what would be in store for you should you choose to accept it.

From the off I found the staff at Lympstone to be all manner of things: Funny, confident, sarcastic, brutally honest, to name a few. And this didn’t change when I began my training as a fledgling Commando recruit. Like most bootnecks, my first real exposure to any kind of role model was our DL, the man charged with getting our precious little backsides through the first two weeks of induction. Our DL was, and still is, a very funny guy but with, understandably, very high standards. In our first two weeks at Lympstone he was the person that we saw most of, the man who informed us that we did not even know how to wash ourselves properly so arranged a demonstration of an individual cleaning out his crevices in the communal shower so that was no excuse thereafter for being crabby. Recently I posted a picture a friend of mine taken on day one of Induction showing myself and another two recruits standing by the demonstration locker. Despite this photo being close to 30 years old, and the DL having who knows how many thousands of Nods pass through his clutches, our DL commented on one of the individuals’ heinous crime of hiding dirty dhobi in his locker. 30 years on. Legend…

I was also a bit of a favourite of our PTI. The club-swinger, for whatever reason, took a bit of a shine to me and would often engage in a bit of banter while I was hoovering in oxygen from every orifice during another ‘mild’ beasting. In return, I looked up to the guy, as may Nods do to their PTIs. However, there were quite a few occasions that myself and my fellow Nods were witness to that stayed with me throughout my career and encouraged me to be as honest and fair in my dealings with people as he had been with us.

The first instance that springs to mind was when my Troop had been allocated an orienteering exercise around Exmouth on a Saturday morning. We were all pretty happy with this as it was a welcome departure from being worked all day around camp. Our PTI couldn’t attend so another individual took his place. Once in Exmouth, we set off in our pairs and completed the course which was really designed more as a time filler than any serious test of ability. On our return to the transport however, the sullen-faced PTI informed us that our PTI would be disappointed to hear that we had been cheating on the exercise. As no more was said on the matter, we assumed it had been a joke.

It wasn’t. On Monday morning, our PTI assembled us on the Bottom Field and informed us of his humiliation at being told of our dishonesty. And that he was going to make sure we paid the price for it in order to learn that integrity is everything in the Royal Marines. Daily thrashings after phys became the norm and, while this was bad enough, the fact that we’d let him down was also weighing heavily on us. After one such hammering, we had a Troop meeting on the landing and with everyone swearing their honesty, concluded that none of us had cheated. As I said, it was a welcome time-filler and not a test, so there had been no motive to cheat in the first place. Also, as I was the club-swinger’s blue-eyed-boy, the decision was made that I should put our case to him.

To be clear, this is not something that a Royal Marine Recruit would usually do. The standard response is to shut up and take the punishment rather than risk further wrath and retribution. But we all felt that our PTI was a man of integrity and that he would at least give me a fair hearing. And he did just that. I marched over to the gym, my plimsoll-clad, left foot slapping the tarmac hard and my brain struggling to form a coherent sentence that would explain our position without calling a PTI a liar. Once I’d gotten through the three hallowed doors that gave entrance to the PTI’s inner sanctum, my PTI stood up and asked me what the hell I wanted. I don’t remember the words exactly but I do know they came out alright and also how the expression on his face changed as I stammered through.

‘Are you telling me that Corporal X is a liar? Are you truly standing before me and claiming that a Royal Marines’ Physical Training Instructor looked me in the eye and lied to me?’ I told him that we definitely were not calling Corporal X a liar, but that not one of the Troop had cheated. He was raging. His face had changed colour ad his dark eyes were boring into me. There was silence for a moment before he pointed at me and said, ‘Okay, you give me your word that none of the Troop cheated on that exercise.’ So I did. Because it was true. He nodded and told me to thin out and that he would deal with me later.

The next day we had a normal, if indeed there is any such thing, phys session in the gym. At the end of it as we covered down on our spots, our PTI stood us at ease and looked down at us from the dais. He beckoned to someone behind us and the sound of running feet echoed in the gym as he was joined by the PTI who had taken us on the orienteering ex. Our PTI then addressed us.

‘In the Royal Marines, integrity is everything. And that doesn’t matter whether you’re a Nod, a Corporal, a Sergeant or a Rupert. It’s what sets us apart gentlemen. Corporal X would now like to say something to you all.’ The other PTI raised his head for the first time and began by apologising for lying about our performance on the exercise. As our collective gobs dropped open, he went on to explain how he was going through a shitty divorce and had been hitting the drink hard and taking his misfortune out on Nods in general. He then asked us to not look upon him as a typical example of a Royal Marines’ NCO as he was not. We should look upon him as the opposite. He finished with another apology and looked up at our PTI who nodded his permission for his colleague to leave. Our PTI waited until he had left the gym before reiterating the torrid time that the other PTI was going through but that this did not excuse his actions. As gobsmacked as we were I can still recall the significance of our PTI’s actions in calling out a colleague on the basis of the word of a recruit. Incredible really, and I know a lot of people who, even if they had suspected the untruth, would have taken the easy road of thrashing the Nods anyway.

Throughout training, I witnessed another couple of episodes which, while not as intense as this, still demonstrated the strong moral compass with which our PTI held himself too. Our paths continued to cross throughout the years, in Northern Ireland, Iraq and Africa. He picked up a gallantry medal at some point but more recently was awarded the George Cross for outstanding bravery in rescuing civilians from a terrorist atrocity. I was not surprised to see this at all, having identified from as long ago as recruit training, that he was made of the ‘right stuff’ for want of a better phrase.

Like many former service men and women, I have been fortunate to have encountered some of the finest role models who have made the biggest impact upon me and, I believe, helped to mould the person that I am today. I have also, like many, met some Olympic-standard throbbers who actually contribute in their own way, sending a shudder down my spine and a vow to ‘never be like that guy…’

I think my Police colleague is right; when we don’t have a role model in our immediate circle of friends and family, we seek it elsewhere, be that in sport, popular culture, or a gang. I truly believe that I was fortunate in being exposed to a steady stream of positive role models throughout my military career but that it all started with stepping off the train at Lympstone Commando and through the gates of CTC.

To those who Serve

By James

On December 13, 2017

In Military Matters, Topical

I’m not really one for watching lots of television although I love good movies or a high-end box set. To that end, I do sometimes find myself behind the curve in recognising current popular culture personalities, media-led trends, and what’s hot and what’s not.

Recently though, my good lady introduced me to the delights of ‘I’m a celebrity, get me out of here’. Essentially it’s a show devoted to the collection and demeaning of C and D list individuals of ‘celebrity’ status, dumping them in an Australian rainforest and forcing them to endure unpleasant trials to earn food. Roman colosseum entertainment for the 21st Century masses.

Be that as it may, the one thing that I picked up on was how much these personalities missed their homes and loved ones, despite the fact that, currently at least, they are around the 14 day mark. A fortnight. Watching a recent episode where the celebs received emails from people at home, I was struck by how emotional they were. And it got me thinking about those members of the Armed Forces who, throughout their careers, will spend years away from their homes and families.

A friend of mine posted last year about how he was gutted to be missing his daughter’s seventh birthday and went on to say that he had only been home for three birthday’s throughout her life. He didn’t moan or gripe about it as he’s a thoroughly professional soldier and one who accepts full responsibility for his choice of career. It was more a case of surprise at how much he’d missed once he’d taken pause and added it all up.

Our country asks a lot, and is given much, from our men and women in the Armed Forces. A standard military operational tour today pretty much writes off the best part of a year for the deploying personnel. Between the progressive exercises, mission-specific training, and pre-deployment prep, the six-month operational tour generally equates to a good nine month’s plus of absence from routine life.

The improvement in communication helps to offset this a little. Face Time, Skype, WhatsApp, Instagram, email etc all facilitate connectivity between the deployed individual and their families. I was reminiscing with a colleague recently about the old days of stone-age communications and the severe limitations.

On a mountainside in Northern Iraq my fellow commandos and I spent two months living in shell-scrapes under our ponchos. We would receive letters from home maybe once a fortnight if a helicopter was heading our way and if the mail had reached our headquarters element. We would go some weeks with no contact whatsoever with home and then receive a bundle of letters that had accumulated in a post room at a US base in Turkey.

The issue here was that it would take a long time for letters to make it between correspondents and many of us could be seen shaking our heads as we read the familiar line from our loved ones; ‘…why aren’t you replying to my letters?’ Or, my personal favourite was when the chopper would come in, land, be unloaded and the excited shout of ‘Mail!’ sent the troop running to the HLS. Someone would hand out the mail, yelling names and sarcastic remarks as they distributed the small white rectangles of morale. There was general quiet as each of us lost themselves in their missives but then there would be a yell of disgust or disbelief as one of the guys received a Poll Tax demand or a letter from his bank demanding he explain why he was consistently overdrawn. Perfect pick-me-up when you’ve been over a month with no other contact from home…

An attempt to alleviate this was the use of the ship to shore call using our radio equipment to call a Royal Navy ship that would then relay it to our loved one’s landline. Again, it seems surreal in this day and age to imagine sitting in a signaller’s tent talking into the handset of the largest PRC radio and trying to get it through to your loved one that she had to say ‘Over’ when she had finished her sentence, made all the more difficult by the five second delay. Or when you’d made the trek to the sigs location, waited for over an hour in the queue and then get nobody home.

Generally speaking, most Service personnel on operational tours are very busy so the time on the ground goes quickly for them. It is however, usually dangerous, stressful, and intense. Draw these elements out over six to nine months and it is not difficult to see how the UK military has become as exhausted as it has over the past ten years. A study I saw some years back showed that the same 35% of the military carried out 90% of the operational tasks, something I’d always suspected but was not surprised to see confirmed.

Year on year, the accumulation of absence from the routine of home life takes its toll. The missed Christmases, birthdays, anniversaries, concerts, New Year parties.

I’ve seen first hand the pressures that these extended absences from home have on the stability of the family unit. Many Armed Forces’ families often find themselves posted alongside their spouses to unfamiliar towns and cities. New schools for the children, new jobs, new routines and dynamics. When the Service member is deployed at this point, the wife or husband remaining behind is suddenly expected to cope with the responsibility of assimilating the family into their new life and deal with all the associated stresses.

When these deployments extend over Christmas, it provides an added pressure, particularly when there are younger children involved. I’m sure many of us have experienced seeing a friend or colleague looking a bit teary-eyed as they hang up the phone or log-off the computer on Christmas day before heading back to their Ops Room or sangar duty.

And the military does try to alleviate this for their deployed personnel. EFI-sourced entertainers, Charlie-Charlie messages from the CO, and the standard Christmas dinner for the troops are just some of the methods with which the pain of absence was supposedly alleviated. But, as someone else once said, ‘the more they try to make it like home, the worse it feels’, or words to that effect.

I’ve spent a lot of Christmases being away from home and usually in pretty grim places, sharing cramped accommodation or a basic bunk. It was always a little easier for me as I didn’t have children but still a lot for my partner to put up with. And sometimes I’d question it: WTF am I doing spending another Christmas day in a dusty, desert shit hole when I could be at home with a belly full of turkey and a large Laphroaig in my hand? Why does anyone do it?

We do it, or did it, because we serve. Because we chose to invest ourselves in something that required bigger sacrifices than could ever be expected of the standard Joe Public. And I think it’s sad to see that this notion of service is all but disappearing from our national psyche. More and more, people seem to be increasingly driven by the notion of self and individual gain than by the giving of anything back.

Even our government recognises this. David Cameron’s ill-fated initiative of a national service for the civilian sector, an indicator of his feelings on the subject. The fact that this initiative failed as spectacularly as it did shows I think, the level of public apathy for anything that does not provide personal gain or instant gratification. I also think that the further a nation removes itself from embracing the notion of service, the bigger the gulf between the people and the Armed Forces becomes, as the general populace have even less in common with the service men and women who deploy on their behalf.

So, to all those members of the Armed Forces deployed abroad this Christmas, or even stuck on Base Company duties or Unit Security, I say thank you. To the soldier carrying out framework patrols around a FOB, to the sailor safeguarding our maritime interests and to the Airmen and women posted to middle-eastern bases supporting our extended operations, thank you for your service. At a time when it can often seem that the notion of Service is all but consigned to the dustbin of history, you can be assured that many of us still recognise the value and importance of your sacrifices at this time of year.

So again, to those who serve, or have served, thank you. Thank you for your Service.

Red Poppy…White Poppy…

By James

On November 7, 2017

In Topical

At this time of year our country comes together to support the Royal British Legion’s Poppy Appeal campaign. No change there. This year however, there was a very public challenge from another group championing the sale and purchasing of white poppies.

I’m not going to give a detailed history of the story of the Poppy Appeal, anyone interested can access this information from a quick type of the subject into a search engine of your own choice. To summarise though, the idea of the Poppy appeal was born in the bloodbath of Flanders’ Fields in the First World War and the subsequent poem by Lt Col John McRae. In 1921 the RBL organised the purchase of 9 million silk poppies and sold them to raise money for returning WW1 veterans struggling with employment and housing issues. Subsequently a poppy factory was set up and employed disabled and disfigured ex-servicemen.

At no point was the message behind the campaign one of celebration or even commemoration of war. It was an altruistic initiative aimed at alleviating the suffering of men who had suffered the very torments of hell already.

What we have this year is almost a protest campaign by the white poppy supporters of the Peace Pledge Union. The white poppy too, has a long history, having begun to be promoted in 1926 for people to show their support to the ending of wars. They claim that their campaign is to support all the victims of all the wars. They believe that they stand as a group to promote the ending of warfare however it is the former element that brings them a lot of negative publicity.

During an uncomfortable chat show interview, Symon Hill of the Peace Pledge Union was put on the spot when he had to declare with a direct answer whether his organisation’s stance recognised members and supporters of ISIS. Citing the party line that his organisation could not pick and choose which victims of which wars, I’m pretty sure that he wasn’t prepared for the vehemence of the public response to his comments. Which surely is only to be expected when you are saying that you recognise people whose sole reason for existence is to kill anyone who disagrees with their philosophies and refuses to convert to their ideology.

I don’t have an issue with the Peace Pledge Union’s ethos of a war-free world and remembering victims of warfare. My issue lies with the poisonous narrative that is being spread about the origins and values of the Red Poppy campaign. I have watched as many people have swallowed the rhetoric spouted against the RBL’s ongoing efforts: That the Red Poppy is a celebration of war, that it is a commemoration of bloodshed, that it is a symbol of racism to wear one.

This is what makes the blood boil. Utterly untrue smears trotted out as facts by those perpetuating these myths. The PPU was also lambasted when it was discovered that they had exhibited at the National Union of Teachers’ conference to promote their campaign in an effort to being granted access to schools. It worked: The PPU signed up over 100 teachers to their initiative and this enabled them to have their £60 school education packs put into state schools throughout the UK.

Col Richard Kemp took umbrage with this initiative, highlighting the fact that taxpayers’ money should not be spent on indoctrinating children with a left-wing political agenda. The PPU counter that the Armed Forces are allowed to enter schools and talk to those of school-leaving age about life in the military and that therefore, the PPU should be allowed to counter this initiative by educating the same children with an alternative narrative. Even their language betrays the scorn and outdated, left-wing views that they hold about the Armed Forces.

The Armed Forces are part of the state’s infrastructure for the defence and security of the realm. They are essential to this and it is important that both recruitment and retention continue to be developed. Contrary to the PPU’s assertion, the Armed Forces offers some outstanding career paths for those who perhaps would be limited in their choices in a conventional environment. I certainly count myself as being included in this bracket.

I remember a conversation a couple of years back with a supporter of the PPU making the point that the Red Poppy and Remembrance Day in general was nothing short of a glamorisation of war and they had made the decision to support neither. When I pointed out the origins of the Red Poppy and the reasons behind it, I was accused of being unable to be objective, having come from a background in the Armed Forces. When I pointed out that actually, my first-hand experience in war zones had made me far more empathetic to the civilian victims than a casual observer of television reports, I was rounded upon and accused of being part of the war machine that caused the deaths in the first place.

Yes, part of the ‘war machine’: An evil conglomerate that deploys on a whim to murder, destroy and pillage small, defenceless nations cowering in fear. But what hit me more than anything else was this person’s absolute hatred for the Armed Forces and what they represented, and their apparent preference for a socialist/communist state that would address the situation. So I pointed out their lack of objectivity and congratulated them on their stubbornness for holding on to a discredited ideology that suppressed and massacred its own people as a means of controlling the masses.

The argument soon turned bitter to the point where my education was brought into question as some kind of justification as to why this person’s university-level education should add more weight to the discussion than my own. Despite the fact that their degree was in English Lit which, as far as I’m aware, doesn’t hold a significant element of geopolitics or social science modules…

I rarely lose my temper during debates or discussions with people like this, having learned many years ago that you can’t reason with morons. However on this occasion I was angry. This person was nothing less than ignorant, insulting, obnoxious, and unwilling to listen to any other viewpoint than that of their own. The irony being that these were all attributes that they levelled at members of the Armed Forces during our discussion.

So the angry me came out. But the good anger: That cold, controlled anger where you dominate the situation by projecting it through your demeanour, expressions, tone of voice, gestures. I delivered a monologue, punctuated by finger pointing and the ‘pusser’s hand’, on everything that the Red Poppy campaign stands for and destroyed every one of the individual’s misguided and misinformed opinions that they’d spouted as facts. I pulled their assertions apart and provided examples to highlight the erroneous beliefs. I could see the change in our dynamic with the person holding up their hands and nodding, leaning backwards, obviously feeling intimidated at my assertive stance.

When I had finished I asked them why they’d felt it acceptable to rant and rave at me with their insults and diatribe and how uncomfortable they’d felt when the behaviour was mirrored back at them. There was a lot of waffle at this point regarding their strongly-held beliefs and passions overriding manners and courtesy but I don’t believe this is the case.

I believe the problem is that their narrative, for the greater part, goes unchallenged or, at best, is given the minimum of rebuttal due in no small part to the vehemence with which they deliver their utter tripe. People being people, most probably walk away with a roll of the eyes or a slight shake of the head, ceding their corner in preference for the quiet life. Unfortunately this is interpreted as another victory and the moral high ground claimed with the flag of the misguided and misinformed, lending strength to their causes and campaigns.

So we should always challenge it. As I said at the start of this piece, I have no issue with the PPU’s aspiration for an end to all wars. I do take issue with their attempts to portray the Red Poppy campaign and Remembrance Sunday as things that they are not. I take issue with state schools spending taxpayers’ money on the white poppy educational packs. I take issue with the PPU’s loathing of the Armed Forces and its efforts to undermine recruitment among school-leavers.

But mostly I take issue with the fact that the PPU goes mostly unchallenged. The money raised by the sale of their poppies goes right back into their own coffers, not to any charitable cause or to aid civilian casualties. The RBL continues to this day to provide aid and assistance, through the revenue raised from the sale of the Red Poppies, to service men and women who desperately need their help. The irony is that it is this that is challenged by the PPU and its supporters and not the fact that funds raised by the PPU benefit no-one but their own organisation. And it is this that should be challenged, particularly at this time of year when we gather to remember the sacrifice that a nation made that allows the PPU and others of their ilk, the freedom of speech to deliver their misguided message.

A real problem to come…

By James

On October 24, 2017

In Terrorism and Counter Terrorism, Topical

In a very rare example of a politician raising their head above the parapet of conformity and non-confrontational policy statements, Rory Stewart, an MP, has called for returning ISIS members and supporters to be killed as traitors as a result of the threat that they pose to the United Kingdom’s national security. Mr Stewart, as well as being an MP for a seat in Cumbria, is also an International Development Minister for the FCO and DfID, and a former diplomat.

Such a bold, hard-line statement from any individual holding office is rare, particularly in the era of the career politician, whose mantra seems to be ‘if we do nothing, then we can do nothing wrong.’ But Mr Stewart is not a conventional politician by any measure. No stranger to the Middle East or the conflicts there, he also walked across Afghanistan in 2002, a remarkable feat captured in his book The Places in Between. What I enjoyed about the book was the fact that Mr Stewart did not fall for or espouse the usual guff about welcoming villagers giving him their last slivers of bread as befitted their customary obligations. Because he could speak the language (and because the majority assumption was that he couldn’t) Mr Stewart could hear first-hand the real conversations behind the duplicitous welcoming grins and invites. He did encounter some genuine hosts along the way, but I really respected his decision to balance his account with the reality on the ground so to speak.

Rory was also the youngest ever Chair of the Defence Select Committee and a Senior Coalition Official in Iraq in 2003 – 2004. It would be very easy for the liberal media to stamp on Mr Stewart’s comments as right-wing, hard-line and anti-islamic, as they tend to do. But it is a little difficult to do that with Mr Stewart as he is also the executive chairman of The Turquoise Mountain Foundation; a NGO charity aimed at reviving traditional arts and crafts and urban regeneration in Afghanistan. So; no muslim hater.

His comments regarding killing returning ISIS members and supporters stand out because of their complete transparency. There is no hidden message here. No softening up pre-statement for advisers to analyse the public response before moving forward. No. This was a clear statement with the justification included just in case there was any confusion.

Brett McGurk, the Special Presidential Envoy to Counter ISIS has made no bones about his aspiration and intention to kill all foreign ISIS fighters on the battlefield. This negates the requirement for messy legal quagmires and political hand-wringing over what stance to take on returning ISIS members. This solution would be the optimum one for all governments facing this quandary; ending the problem on the battlefield in the theatre of conflict. But not all will die there. In the UK, many have returned already, causing a nightmare scenario for our security and intelligence services.

With over 850 British citizens having fled to ISIS-controlled territories, around 150 having been killed and approximately 400 returning to the UK in the past 18 months (as of July 2017), it doesn’t take a mathematical genius to see that we have a significant problem. The Director General of MI5, Andrew Parker stated recently that MI5 is now foiling one major terrorist plot a month. The key word in this phrase is major; likely to result in significant loss of lives. This does not even take into account the hundreds of other plots in their infancy or struggling to get off the ground.

Add to this mix those returning ISIS personnel, dejected and defeated, the dream of the caliphate a hazy memory. Do we really believe that these individuals are going to reintegrate into normal society? Sit back on their sofas in Luton with a digestive and a cup of tea to watch Eastenders? Slot back into the Friday night treat of a KFC while watching TV in Kenilworth? Look back on their days in black as nothing more than a misguided gap year never to be repeated?

Max Hill QC, the Independent Reviewer of Terrorism, would appear to be of the opinion that yes, many of those returning from Iraq and Syria should be allowed to settle back into normal life. Should be given ‘space’ to readjust rather than being prosecuted. That they were ‘naive teenagers’ embarking upon a great adventure. Mr Hill’s comments are directly opposed to Rory Stewart’s and highlight the growing gulf in how our political masters will address the situation.

So, should we treat returning ISIS members and supporters as traitors, affording them the full measure of the state’s wrath? Or should we view them more in line with Mr Hill’s assessment?

I for one wholeheartedly subscribe to treating these returning dregs of humanity as traitors and I have several reasons for this:

We are at war with ISIS. Officially. They represent a real threat to the safety of the United Kingdom and its people either through direct action or their support and sponsorship of terrorist attacks here. Any support, involvement, or assistance to ISIS aids them in their effort to kill UK citizens.
This is not Germany during World War 2 where many citizens were co-opted to join and support the Nazi party because to do otherwise risked alienation, arrest and incarceration. Just getting to ISIS-controlled territories took real effort; months of preparation and planning, of covering one’s activities from friends and family, financing the journey. Then travelling through different countries and networks of people smugglers and facilitators just to get there. At any stage during this strained process, the individual could have stopped and returned home before crossing the rubicon. Indeed, this would have been easier to do. The fact that they chose not to demonstrated their commitment to the ISIS cause.
ISIS relies completely on recruitment to swell its ranks and boost its physical presence. While our news footage is filled with scenes of the black-clad, AK47-toting fighters, like any other war machine these fighters are supported by a cast of thousands of less glamorous but essential roles. Medical and First Aid helpers, IT experts, Cooks, Mechanics, Propaganda Writers, Shopkeepers, Communications, Tradesmen to look after and repair housing, Accountants, Couriers, Factory Workers etc, etc, etc. The list is almost endless but the point is that the murdering and killing could not have taken place without the infrastructure around it that kept ISIS functioning. So, no matter that those returning from Syria or Iraq claim that they were never fighters, to me their role was just as significant. An analogy would be sending British soldiers into Afghanistan with only their rifles and bullets and no other support whatsoever. Their war would be a very short one.

And lastly, because this is what they chose to support. This is just one example of the mindset and psychology of the people who flock to join ISIS regardless of how big or small their perceived role is. The burning alive of a Jordanian pilot, filmed and disseminated across the internet for the world to see. And it’s worth remembering that many of those who did see it nodded with satisfaction and agreed with the vile action. ISIS exploit the value of social media much better than many of its predecessors, provoking terror and outrage while aiding recruitment. And it is the fact that actions such as this encouraged British citizens to flock to the caliphate that should warn us against treating them as anything less than the fighters themselves. If you support the burning alive of a man in a cage or the throwing of suspected homosexuals from the roofs of buildings, your values are not those of the United Kingdom.

And this is why I believe that these returning creatures have to be labelled, processed and tried as traitors. They are not returning because they realised the error of their ways, came to their senses and said ‘ ..mmm…these guys are mental, this is not for me.’ Maybe for the odd individual that could be the case but not for the majority. They are returning because the dream is over. The caliphate is gone and the black flack burned with its ashes scattered in the wind. These people are not returning to the UK to assimilate back into society and in any case, should not be allowed to do so. No matter how hard they try to assure the authorities otherwise, in some part of their psyche there lingers the motivation that prompted them to make the considerable effort to follow the black flag and cheer as men burned in cages.

And it is nearly impossible to redirect this motivation. But it is very easy to reignite it, blow on the hot embers until the flames are seen once again, rousing dormancy to a state of action. This cannot be allowed to happen. Rory Stewart completely understands this, probably as a result of his significant exposure to conflict zones and their associated issues. Max Hill does not.

Our government is charged with the duty of care of our nation and its citizens. When the head of MI5 is telling us that we have a real problem keeping a lid on terrorist attacks, what we cannot have is a returning population of individuals who hate our country, our people and our way of life. And who can slip back unnoticed into our general population where they can be the most effective to ISIS-sponsored plots and attacks.

Yes, it is a very hard decision for a government to publicly pronounce, particularly in this risk-averse climate the majority of our politicians seem to thrive upon. But it is a decision that cannot be shirked or prevaricated over. Send the clear message; a traitor to our country will be treated in accordance with the full wrath of the state. To do otherwise is a betrayal of the trust of the people who voted you into office and charged you with the duty of keeping us safe. More importantly, it is a betrayal to the families who have lost loved ones to the vile actions of these reprehensible criminals and their supporters.

An Unbeaten Path; how one man overcame his PTSD

By James

On October 2, 2017

In Military Matters, Topical

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gslEeV2DATU

Andy Shaw was known to many of us throughout his time in the Royal Marines. A respected war veteran and popular officer throughout his military career. I’m pretty sure however, very few of us had any idea of the horror he experienced or the associated guilt and trauma he carried inside for years to come.

This is a beautifully constructed documentary about a remarkable man and the horror he experienced that affected him for over 30 years. More importantly it is the story of how he overcame this affliction and channeled his experiences to help others suffering from PTSD.

It is the first work I have seen of Geraint Hill’s and it is impressive. The subject matter is handled with sensitivity, compassion and unflinching honesty that makes this a moving and relevant piece.

This is a story of an individual who not only addressed his own demons but invested his life in helping others going through the same experience. Utterly inspirational.

Once were Warriors..

By James

On September 15, 2017

In Military Matters, Topical

United by uniform, bound by oaths of attestation, moulded by shared experiences, the military is the very definition of a tribe. A warrior tribe of men and women connected by common values and ethos. A patchwork populace of smaller groups united by the same procedures and processes that provide commonality. We call them Unit or Regimental traditions because ‘rituals’ sounds too primitive and pagan. We call them deployments because ‘rites of passage’ is more akin to young African males entering manhood, having proved their worth. We award medals to mark the warrior’s achievement because celebrating this accomplishment with scar tissue on the face would not please the RSM.

We speak our own language; largely English but littered with acronyms and slang incomprehensible to anyone outside our circle. This bonds us further, separating us from those who don’t talk our talk. And we like this, take a perverse pride in our collective identity. If you ever witness a reunion of old military colleagues it is almost instant that drinks become ‘wets’ or ‘brews’, the kitchen becomes the ‘galley’ or the ‘cookhouse’ and the rate of profanity multiplies at an eye-watering rate. They are back with their tribe, back among the only people they feel truly understand them.

This relationship is cemented completely by the bond of experiencing war. When young, and perhaps not-so young people experience and survive war, they become even closer to one another, becoming a tribe within a tribe. They relate more to each other than anyone else in the belief that only they can fully understand what they have gone through. Trying to share this with someone outside of their circle is futile and often seems to belittle the intensity of the experience.

This situation becomes worse when the conflict is an unpopular one. The well-documented situation of returning soldiers from Vietnam to the USA is a good example of this. Tours of duty over, the returning veterans were targeted by those protesting the war and the government’s foreign policy. Stunned by the staggering level of antipathy they experienced, most veterans retreated within themselves, unwilling and unable to discuss their experiences with anyone else but another vet. It took many years for the general public to differentiate between a government’s misguided foreign intervention and the poor conscripts that were sent to fight it. Hence the glut of books and movies relating to Vietnam only being released a long time after the conflict. Vietnam veterans in the USA probably retain a stronger bond with each other than most post-conflict veterans due to their poor treatment, forcing them to fall back on the bonds formed in the jungles and paddy fields of South East Asia to fill the void they found on their return.

The military, by necessity, takes individuals and moulds them into tribes, relinquishing the self and thinking only of the group. Because that is the only way you can take people to war and expect them to fight and survive. Contrary to public perception, very few soldiers would cite Queen and Country as their motivation for facing down bursts of AK 47 fire in dusty foreign compounds. They fight to protect the man or woman either side of them, to take the position without losing one of their own. In this the military is uniquely successful in its ability to achieve this mix of duty, honour, and commitment from an individual pulling in sometimes less than the minimum wage.

But what happens when service personnel leave all this behind and enter an entirely new world where there is no real chain of command? No orders, merely company directives? Where swearing in the staff room can lead to a dignity at work infringement? When their request for a coffee ‘Julie Andrews’ is met with a blank look? Some won’t experience this, assimilating almost immediately to their new circumstances. Some will adapt, in time, learning through guided discovery. Others however, can’t or won’t adapt.

I’ve lost count of the amount of ex-servicemen and women I have met who refer to their work colleagues as ‘civvies’, despite having been ‘civvies’ themselves for many years. When they discuss their jobs there is the inevitable lambasting of the evil triumvirate of Health and Safety, HR, and Political Correctness and that these institutions weaken rather than strengthen the workplace environment. Nostalgia for their time back in the mob when things seemed simpler and easier to understand is all too common. A time when an infringement was addressed immediately by a SNCO having a quiet word or a blatantly open threat of public disembowelment from the RSM. No paperwork or escalation process, no HR hand-wringing or procedural quagmires. A different time.

So why do some of us find it harder than others to integrate back into regular society after a long spell in the military? It’s simple; we have left our tribe, our brothers and sisters, a way of life alien to many but the only one many of us have known. It’s particularly hard for those who joined the Forces at the age of 16 and have literally known nothing other than the military for their entire adult life. A friend of mine is a prime example of this. He joined the Royal Marines as a ‘boy soldier’ or junior, worked hard, got promoted, became a sniper and enjoyed a good career. What was apparent to me however was that during social occasions we could only ever really talk about military subjects as he had no real experiences outside of this. When wives and girlfriends would discuss their work or relay an anecdote or two, his eyes would glaze over and he would have nothing to say until he turned the conversation back to the merits of Crusader Bergans over PLCE…

Another friend of mine summed it up with his own experience. He left the Marines after completing around 6 years of service. When he was attending job interviews he would conduct a discreet assessment of those around him and, by his own admission, sit back smugly secure in the knowledge that he was more than a cut above most of the scruffy applicants, dressed as he was in smart suit and gleaming, polished shoes. After many rejections however, it dawned on him that if he wasn’t getting these jobs then they must have been given to the scarecrows he had been so quick to deride. He told me that the penny eventually dropped that nobody really gave a shit that he’d been in the Corps for a few years or that he could iron a shirt and polish his shoes.

He was treated exactly the same as the scruffs he had looked down his nose at. And it was this aspect that confused him the most. He was accustomed, as most of us were, that when people asked you what you did and you replied ‘I’m in the Forces.’, they would proffer their respect and admiration. When he left, he anticipated this same admiration to stand him in good stead but found it cut little ice with employers looking for someone with recent experience. Dejected and alienated, he missed his tribe more than ever and became quite embittered as a result of his experiences.

Because in the private sector, there really isn’t a tribe, at least not in the way that we have become accustomed. Alpha bankers and stock traders may beat their chests and dispute this, but a collection of hyper-masculine individuals do not constitute a tribe. At most they are a subculture.

So when we walk out of the camp or barracks for the last time we are also walking away from our tribe. And when we lose our tribe we become lost, cast adrift in an entirely new world that we struggle to make sense of. At least for a while. And that time frame is different for everyone.

Company employees are not conditioned or programmed to put the group before self, do not endure physical suffering that creates bonds or recognise a sacrosanct chain of command. Because they don’t need to; they will never encounter a situation where the life of the man or woman next to them depends on their actions. They will never be asked to remain awake, hungry, thirsty, physically and mentally exhausted, for days at a time. Never have to say goodbye to their wives and children in the hope that they return alive or at least in one piece.

Because that’s what members of the Armed Forces are paid for. To fulfil these duties on behalf of the public and negate the requirement for conscription or compulsory National Service.

When former service personnel join their new job in the private sector, depending on the individual, the transition period can be quite a significant one. And the main reason for this is, for the most part, lack of commonality. The adjustment of leaving a structured tribe and moving into something altogether more amorphous.

In some cases however, the attributes and values we bring from our tribe stand us in good stead in our second careers. Again, it is not uncommon for an ex-Forces individual to shine in a job through their confidence, communication, and willingness to push themselves. One of my former colleagues found himself doing very well at his new civilian job and was gaining rapid promotion. He found that one of the things that he brought from his military background was that of keeping going until the task was complete. Many of his co-workers were happy to down tools the minute the working day was done, regardless of what stage of development the project was at. My friend reverted to old habits and worked until happy that he had completed the elements of the task to either deadlines or time-frames rather than clock-watching. This attitude was picked up by senior management who rewarded his endeavours with quick promotion and additional benefits, to the chagrin of some of his colleagues who felt their time in position should have qualified them for the promotion. As my friend stated quite succinctly, ‘Longevity of position is not a benchmark of quality.’ Quite right; anyone can spend 8 hours a day sitting in an office. It’s what you do with those 8 hours that makes the difference.

I see regular posts on various forums from former service personnel unhappy with their lives after the Forces and in particular, how they feel let down by the military after they have left. One such post I see now and again on social media says ‘I was prepared to fight for my country, I was prepared to die for my country, I was NOT prepared to be abandoned’. I was curious about this post for several reasons, the main one being that it was liked and shared by a lot of people. Now, I could understand the odd individual who has had a raw deal based upon personal circumstances, but whole groups?

So I contacted a few of these people, asked about their experiences and was quite surprised by their reasoning. Taking the few individuals with very personal circumstances out of the equation, the remainder seemed to feel that the military had failed them all in dereliction of after-care. Their military experience ranged from 2 years to 10, some had deployed, some had not, some were front-line soldiers, some were not. But all felt that their struggle to assimilate was the direct fault of the military in not preparing them for life after the mob. As some of them had left the Forces as far back as the seventies I thought it possible that perhaps the blame lay in the inadequate resettlement processes of that era. However, many of the individuals I contacted had left far more recently and had the opportunity to engage with the resettlement packages available so this couldn’t be the ‘one size fits all’ answer.

Truth is…I didn’t find an answer. I found bitterness, blame and utter belief that the military ‘should have done something’. But what? What could the military have done to assist these individuals in integrating into civilian life? As I said, I can understand this back when once your time was done you walked out the door on a rainy Friday afternoon after handing your leaving routine in and that was it. Military to Mr or Mrs at the dropping of the barrier behind you.

But regarding the individual who had only completed 2 years of service, never deployed and (I suspect from our conversations) left under a bit of a cloud; were they entitled to some long-term commitment from the Army to ensure their well-being? My feeling was that this individual couldn’t give me a definitive answer to what the Army should have done for him…realistically. His suggestions seemed to indicate that he wanted some kind of extended, formal links with his old life. He felt that the Royal British Legion, Regimental Associations etc just didn’t cut it for him. To be honest, I was at a bit of a loss with what to suggest and struggled to identify with his cause. But I believe that on leaving the Army, he’d struggled to fit in with his new circumstances despite his relatively short service period. His language remains littered with military jargon and slang, linking him back to the tribe he left many years before.

It is incredible the strength of the bonds that unite military personnel, even, as in the case of the individual above, when they have completed a relatively small amount of service. Once forged, never forgotten as the expression goes. I doubt there’s a former member of the Armed Forces, regardless of how long they have been civilians, who can’t rattle off the service number they last used decades before.

I’ve always thought that if a company or business could replicate the military’s success in gaining and retaining the loyalty and esprit de corps of its tribes, they would be sitting on a gold mine. Unfortunately, corporate culture and working compliances do not open themselves to the same practices that the military exploit to build the tribal framework. The closest I think I have witnessed was the early years of Virgin, when Richard Branson’s personality-driven work culture accrued very real loyalty from his workforce. Branson, through his well-documented focus on looking after his staff, came closest to building what I believe defines a tribe. Branson’s employees loved working for the brand, were proud to wear the Virgin uniform and represent their CEO to the general public. As I said, this was the early days and Virgin today is another multi-national, corporate giant with a typical workforce representative of such.

And I think this is because the bigger an organisation becomes, the more difficult it is to maintain the links that created the tribal culture in the first place. Yes, the military is a large organisation, but it is essentially a nation of smaller tribes bonded and linked by common purpose and sense of duty.

Our tribes define who we are and how we conduct ourselves, and the longer we remain with a tribe the stronger the bonds. The intense experiences we endure throughout our military service further cements those bonds, extending them long after the day we walk away from our tribe to face a future of assimilating into an altogether different animal. An animal that has none of the intensity of experience or common platforms from which to relate.

We once were warriors, a tribe in the truest sense of the word where, for however long we served, the self was put aside for the good of the many. A concept that became hard to find once we’d returned our ID cards and walked out of the main gate of camp to whatever fate awaited us.

No country for old (or young) women?

By James

On August 12, 2017

In Topical

Like many a soldier and then later in my career, an advisor, I spent a lot of time in Afghanistan. Years in fact. I count myself fortunate to have seen a lot of the country and not just the usual circuits of Kandahar and Helmand Provinces where the majority of UK Armed Forces conduct their operational tours. Logar, Herat, Nangarhar, Balkh, Paktia, Paktika, Kunar, Wardak, Parwan, Kabul were some of the regions I travelled and worked among others.

But there was one thing that I couldn’t help but observe on my travels: This was one harsh country. In every way; geographical, political, economical. A feudal landscape still dominated and ruled through tribal fiefdoms and powerful warlords. Travel an hour in any direction away from the capital of Kabul and the impact of Government was absolutely minimal if at all. A patriarchal patchwork of tribal allegiances and ethnic divides where the rule of law was determined at the local level by elders and men of influence. Patriarchal and male. Country-wide, this is how Afghanistan is really controlled.

Which leaves women with a very shitty deal really. On our first operational tours, even us older, worldly-wise individuals could be surprised at the level of the mistreatment of women in Afghanistan. Coming from a society where gender equality is a given and any mistreatment of a woman regarded as a particularly vile crime, some of the things we witnessed were particularly hard to take.

Again, far from the ivory towers of the Kabul government and their proud, vocal assertions that the foreign money and investment was improving the lot of Afghan women, the ground truth was very different. The medics on our patrols would regularly encounter village women hideously disfigured with scar tissue. Due to the patriarchal protocols our male medics were not allowed to treat these women but could only ask about the nature of the injuries in general and leave some medication with them. These injuries were a result of self-immolation; setting oneself on fire. I was to learn later that in a lot of these isolated villages, with very little else at their disposal, dousing themselves in the kerosene used for cooking and heating was a common way for a woman to attempt to kill herself.

The very nature of that type of suicide attempt pretty much underlines what a miserable existence someone must be experiencing to even consider such an act. On one occasion we learned that the woman we were trying to help had been bought and wed to a much older man, and I’m talking decades older here. She had suffered beatings from his other, older wives, given all the chores to carry out, and was being blamed for the chronic illness he was suffering. She had tried to escape back to her family but had been caught and again, brutally beaten for her transgression. Isolated, abused and unsupported she set herself on fire but did not die and was left in horrific agony with no medical treatment or medication to help.

These incidents were always reported back and initiatives and projects were developed to attempt to improve the situation. The setting up of Female Engagement Teams or FETs as they were called, was one such initiative. Female soldiers, translators, medics and civilian specialist advisors would deploy into the regions to engage directly with the local female populace. It was felt that this would be a good work-around the patriarchal limitations that our predominately male-composed patrols had been facing.

The good news stories soon began filtering back, initially in the formal reports and then onto the pages of each country’s military publications and websites. Smiling FETs with arms around village women, photos of a midwifery presentation being delivered in a crumbling concrete shed, footage of gender empowerment talks given to local women. The FETs were a solid program with great aims and focussed individuals motivated by the best of reasons. But they were fighting an uphill battle.

Although I have many examples, I think the one provided to me by a Dutch colleague gives a good general snapshot of how the program was received by the men in these regions. Anna was the lead on a coalition Female Engagement program that was reaching out to women in the isolated mountain villages and hamlets with a view to identifying their needs and addressing these requirements. Anna travelled everywhere with a complement of Dutch Marines for the protection of her team and allow them to carry out their meetings and work without the additional responsibility of looking after their own security. Anna and her team were usually accepted on a sliding scale of grudgingly to indifferent by the village elders. As for the women, it would take a little time for Anna and her team to convince them that they were there solely with the women’s interest at heart.

Anna loved her job, you can still tell that today by the enthusiasm and passion evident in her voice when she speaks about it. For her, to see and hear first hand how these women suffered fuelled her motivation to provide some improvement, no matter how small, to help them. Medical help, encouragement in self-assertion, offers to provide transport to allow them to attend clinics in nearby areas, provision of hygiene products; just some of the small but important initiatives Anna and her team provided to the women living among these remote, bleak mountain ridges.

To this day Anna is still unsure how the villagers managed to isolate her from her Marine security force. What she does remember is turning towards the door of the small room where she and her interpreter had been delivering a class in how to access further treatment. The door was wide open and the men from the village were pouring inside. The women around her began screaming and rushed past her, colliding with the men as they stumbled out of the doorway. The men ignored their wives and daughters, their sole focus on Anna and her interpreter. The first rock hit Anna on her upper shoulder and she barely had time to cover her head with her arms as the barrage of boulders were hurled at her from a distance where the men couldn’t possibly miss. She was knocked down and tried to call on her radio but her lowered arm exposed her head and she took a rock to the forehead that split the skin and made her reel backwards, blood pouring into her eyes. She curled into a ball, covering her head as best she could as rocks continued pounding her body and bouncing off the wall behind her. She was screaming for her team at the top of her lungs as the men of the village grabbed her and tried to prise her arms away from her head to give them a clearer target where they could use their rocks as hammers to crush her skull. Two loud gunshots sounded and Anna screamed with fear, believing that the villagers were now shooting at her. The grabs and the rock throwing ceased and she could hear the confident commands and the new sound of the village men yelping in pain. The security force had arrived.

Anna knows she was lucky. Bar the split forehead and a ton of impressive bruises, she survived. She is under no illusions that if the assault had continued much longer she would have died and her killers disappear into the mountain passes they knew far better than the foreign soldiers. There was of course an inquiry into the incident, how it happened, whose fault was it, but for Anna, more importantly; Why? She was at a loss to identify the motivation for the attack when all she was doing was providing low-level assistance to these men’s wives and daughters.

Turned out that the men of the villages were getting more and more irate at this foreign woman who was trying to make their women as brazen and shameless as she was. Local elders attended a shura, or meeting with Anna’s superiors to explain the incident and made no bones about the fact that they felt that the men who had stoned Anna and her interpreter had been absolutely justified in doing so and they considered the whole program a direct insult to their culture and religion. And would defend both in exactly the same way again if the foreign soldiers continued with their efforts. They didn’t. Anna’s program in the region was dropped in common with anything that was deemed culturally or otherwise incompatible with local sensitivities.

Anna is not bitter about her experience; she spent another few months in Afghanistan after her incident where she experienced some small successes but invariably ran into the same brick wall of patriarchal dominance and utter control over the lives and existence of the women in their towns and villages. An intelligent woman, she sums up her experience as something along the lines of taking 21st century values and equality ethos to a 14th century feudal society incapable of change. We both agree, based upon our experiences that real change for women, and not just the occasional good news story from Kabul trumpeted to the world’s media for its rarity, will only come with generational change. And quite a few generations.

I know some people will read this post and form the opinion that I maybe misrepresent the misogynistic treatment as being systemic, but I don’t. I think the case that highlights just how deep-rooted the problem continues to be is the barbaric murder of Farkhunda Malikzada back in 2015. This was a well-educated woman studying Islam who had the audacity to challenge the custodian of a shrine who was preying on the women who visited it by coercing them to purchase superstitious amulets. Farkhunda shamed the custodian with her knowledge of Islam and she snatched his paper amulets up, threw them in a rubbish bin and burnt them. The custodian retrieved the burnt ashes, placed them in an old copy of the Quran and went into the street holding it aloft in indignation and claiming that Farkhunda had burnt the holy book.

It was 4pm, prayer time, and Kabul was very busy. The reaction was immediate. Men in the street turned on Farkhunda and within seconds she was being beaten and accused of being an American spy. The police initially tried to help her but the mob had now reached the hundreds and had fuelled themselves into a body of rage. So the police stood back and let the animals have their way.

This whole incident was captured on film so I’m not going to go into it in painful detail as a quick type of Farkhunda’s name into a search engine will bring up the recordings. It is still one of the most vile killings I have seen and serves as a reminder how quickly hatred manifests itself as physical violence.

Farkhunda was stamped upon, beaten with planks and poles, punched then run over by a car that dragged her for 300 metres. Still not enough for the crowd, they threw her body onto the dry river bed and tried to set her on fire. She had been injured so badly however that her burqa was soaked in blood and wouldn’t take light. The mob actually used their own scarves as fuel around her body to ensure it ignited. When the police eventually arrived at this horrific cremation they advised the crowd to step back and be careful that they didn’t get burned.

So; all captured on mobile phones and the footage studied with 49 perpetrators identified, 19 of them police officers. In the end 3 men were handed sentences of 20 years and 1 man given 10 years despite the fact that the death penalty is the standard for such a heinous crime. The policemen were punished with…a travel ban. Yep, not allowed to travel outside their regions for a year. And the men who received the actual sentences? Doubtful any of them will serve anything remotely close to what they got if indeed, they even remain in jail today. And the custodian who started all of this? A proper investigation identified that he had been selling condoms, viagra, and acting as a pimp for women he prostituted from the area near the shrine. But he wasn’t beaten and set alight to by a mob of baying, rabid animals. He had nothing even close to the treatment of his victim despite his proven crimes.

All because Farkhunda was a woman. Her death was not even deemed that important until the pressure from the international community forced the Kabul government to actually deal with the crime. A telling portion of the whole sorry tale was when Farkhunda’s parents arrived at the police station on hearing that their daughter was in trouble. The Chief of Police turned to them and informed them that their daughter had burnt the Quran, that it was a proven fact beyond dispute and there was nothing more to be said about the matter. Case closed.

The title of one of my favourite books of all time is ‘No country for old men’ by Cormac McCarthy and it’s a phrase that always springs to mind whenever I think about the woman of Afghanistan where it remains No country for old, or young, women.