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The Value of Black Humour…

While not entirely unique to the military, black humour is probably seen by commanders at every level as the key factor in assessing morale in trying conditions. A very true expression I came across time and time again in the military was ‘…don’t worry when your soldiers are complaining; it’s when they stop that you know there’s a real problem.’ And I found that to be very true; that no matter how bleak or tough the situation, the jokes and the banter kept coming. It was when this stopped that I knew we had something to worry about.

We use idioms and sayings such as ‘If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry’ that encapsulate the meaning of humour supporting triumph over adversity. I’m pretty sure every former and serving member of the Armed Forces has countless examples of these that they chuckle over whenever they recall them to memory. But they serve a very useful function whereby anyone who is feeling overwhelmed or scared shitless during a situation is brought out of their private hell by a shocking but hilarious statement. This pulls the individual back into the support of the group and takes their mind away from the deep, dark abyss it has just been peering over.

It also provides individuals with a relief outlet during times of extreme stress. An example of this I witnessed was when I had just rotated back to my unit after a stint in a very kinetic area of Iraq. We were on the ranges one day when the word came down that we had lost two members of our unit in an ambush. I didn’t know either individual other than on a casual basis but many others were shocked and devastated by the loss of close comrades. Saddled upon this sadness was the news that the roles of the recently deceased would have to be replaced.

Pretty much anyone who could have deployed had already done so, to the point where individuals were getting fatigued. But it’s the military and the show stops for no-one. Eventually when no volunteers came forward, a pressed man was found. He wasn’t happy about going back there so soon but accepted his lot with a healthy amount of cursing and complaining. But we knew this guy well and knew that he’d also had a close call on one of his last rotations. So…we are firing away on the range, enjoying the day and the rarity of the occasion when we could all meet up.

A colleague of mine mentioned how strained ‘Trev’ looked and I’d noticed the same thing myself. And we both knew he was processing his forthcoming deployment with anything but joy. Just then a military photographer arrived and said he’d been told to get a few pictures of us for the Unit’s historical archives. As we jostled for positions with the usual banter, ‘Trev’ remained off to one side, indicating that he wasn’t arsed about being in some crap photo for the CO’s study. There was a moment of quiet as everyone sympathised with what he was going through until my colleague stepped out of line and said ‘Oh come on Trev; this might be the last photo you’re ever in with both of your legs mate!’

The laughter was immediate, everyone creased up and even ‘Trev’ gave his first grin of the day and wandered over to join us. The comments were flying thick and fast with requests for his Breitling watch if he lost an arm and his Ducati motorbike if he didn’t make it back at all. He was laughing himself now and demonstrating his contempt for our lack of respect with his two upturned middle fingers. We turned our attention back to the photographer who was setting up his cameras and shaking his head. ‘There’s something seriously wrong with you lot.’ was all he said.

But he was wrong. If we’d all been of a mind to tiptoe around ‘Trev’s issue, or sympathised with well-meaning platitudes; the ‘You be careful over there’, ‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through’, ‘You must be so disappointed’ etc, etc, etc…it would have made matters worse. As it was, he left the ranges a different man from the morose scowler who’d started the day. Only problem was when he went back and was relaying the tale to his girlfriend that night, she didn’t quite see the funny side. Oh, and he returned to us six months later. With all his parts complete.

Even during the most extreme circumstances, black humour can act as a coping mechanism that enables individuals to get through the short term period of trauma or shock and allow them to carry on with the task at hand and deal with the emotions later when in a safer environment.

An officer that I knew visited the rehabilitation unit at Headley Court and had steeled himself for the sight of amputees and disfigured soldiers. He’d anticipated a morose, maudlin hospice where the feelings and sensitivities of the patients would require great care in order to avoid offence. To his relief and surprise, nothing could have been farther from the truth. What he encountered was an environment of tough-willed individuals who refused to be defined by their injuries and relentlessly mocked each other’s ailments and injuries.

He witnessed many occasions where, during the sports sessions, double amputees would mock those who had lost ‘only’ one leg, referring to them as ‘plastic’ or false claimants, showing off with their big, fat, white leg. On one occasion he was stood speaking to a wheelchair-bound veteran when another individual in a wheelchair negotiated past them. Without a word, this individual reached out and upended the veteran my friend was talking to, tipping him right out of his wheelchair and onto the floor. My friend was stunned as the perpetrator sped off down the corridor hooting with laughter. The guy on the ground looked up with a huge grin, shaking his head. ‘Bastard! He’s owed me that for ages since I loosened the wheels on his chair a couple of weeks ago!’

There was another interesting aside to the Headley Court example around a few months after this story. The comedian Jimmy Carr made a joke that went something like:

‘Isn’t it awful, all those poor soldiers coming back from Afghanistan. Wounded, maimed, losing their arms and legs. Absolutely terrible…but on the plus side, Great Britain is going have a good chance of winning the Paralympics next year!’

I found this funny. My friends found it funny. Some of the tabloids however went after Jimmy Carr with a vengeance and he was forced to make a public apology and retract his comment. A letter written by a group of injure veterans was put together and sent to the tabloids telling them not to try and speak for them when they were perfectly capable of voicing their own opinions. And that they had found Jimmy Carr’s joke hilarious.

Like many of us, I have retained my love of black humour but have also learned to be careful where and when I indulge in it. The world is littered with masses of individuals just waiting to take offence at the merest hint of an improper remark. A very good friend of mine relayed the story of a BBQ with his new colleagues from his office job shortly after leaving the forces.

They’d began telling funny stories and anecdotes and my friend joined in, throwing his hat in to the ring with a tale that involved a shooting, a brothel, the theft of a prosthetic leg, and a baboon. A classic saga of soldiers abroad getting into a ridiculous situation and living to tell the tale. It was his wife’s hissing of his name that alerted him to the fact that all was not well. It was one of his favourite stories from his time in the military and he’d gotten so caught up in the telling of it he’d failed to register the silence and shocked faces of his new co-workers. The awkward silence that followed underlined how unimpressed his colleagues were with the dark, funny story. But he remembered the laughs he’d got relaying the same tale in his previous life and thought he would receive the same reception from his new co-workers. Sadly, this was not the case.

Paramedics, Fire and Police Service personnel also share a healthy black humour that again, acts as a coping mechanism for dealing with the grim nature of some of their roles. And while it can be frowned upon by officious jobsworths with little else to occupy their time, I for one will never lose my regard for the value that it serves.

 

 

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When The Dirtier became Mohammed

When I worked on a special projects program in Afghanistan, I spent a lot of my time with the Afghans, rather than with the coalition forces that is the standard operational tour model I was accustomed to. There were several downsides to this, the main one of course being constantly alert and hyper-vigilant of the insider threat; the Afghan that would walk into one of my sessions one day with a suicide vest primed and ready to go.

The upshot was the experience of living and working alongside these people and their culture and the direct access to their lives and stories. Case in point: The old guy in this photo worked in the location where we conducted a lot of our training courses. I kind of inherited him when I took over the role and he was allegedly employed to clean our offices, classroom and break-out areas. In reality he would just run a spectacularly filthy cloth over surface areas making them far worse than they had originally been. That was how he earned the nom de guerre of ‘The Dirtier’.

He was very poor, even by Afghan standards. He received no official salary but was paid in kind with leftover food from the Afghan trainers. He never spoke but communicated through gestures and an odd grunt to get his point across. Once I had settled into my new position I became curious. Who was this guy? Why was he allowed to remain in our compound when he was actually more of a hindrance than a help? The Afghans are not noted for being a particularly charitable people so I was also interested in their reasons for letting him hang around.

So I asked my Afghan counterpart, a Major with a fearsome reputation earned on the battlefields of Helmand and Kandahar. Turned out ‘The Dirtier’ was once a respected Afghan Army officer who refused to shore up the puppet government that the Russians emplaced back in the 80s. Choosing honour and integrity over capitulation, he joined the Mujahaddin and their battle to force the Soviet war machine out of their country.

A natural leader and superb tactician, he quickly became a legend for his audacious attacks and bravery in action. A boogeyman spoken about in hushed tones around Russian campfires in the Hindu Kush. But with success comes notoriety and he was now firmly on the Russians’ radar. His name crept up the target list aided by information about him gleaned from savage interrogations of captured fighters. He evaded the Russians’ attempts to ensnare him and was regaled as something of a folk hero by the Afghans. But it could never last; he was a marked man.

During a particularly brutal engagement he and his men were trapped in the neck of a steep valley, decimated by repeated strafing runs from the Hind gunships. Pinned by the aerial onslaught there was no escape when the Special Forces troops swept down from the summits. His war was over. The boogeyman was caught. His capture was celebrated by the Russians who by now were looking for any good news stories to send back home to a demoralised population questioning the deaths of their conscripted sons in a nonsensical cause.

His capture was always going to be a painful one; The Russians have none of the sensitivities or conformity to treatment agreements that our western nations have. Mohammed was tortured. Firstly for information; where are the other fighters basing themselves? Who is helping them? When is the next attack? Secondly he was tortured for revenge, reparation for the lives of the soldiers he had taken. And lastly, for sport; the broken boogeyman available to all and sundry to vent their frustrations upon. Mohammed was tortured horribly and for a long time.

As a result of his torture and interrogations he is deaf and speaks only with difficulty. Hence the grunting and pointing for communicating. This man has borne witness, and been subjected to, the very worst atrocities that human beings inflict upon each other. By rights he should be a bitter misanthrope, a man with an axe to grind against the world and the injustice it served upon him. But he is not. His soft, kind eyes show he bears no grudges. The laughter lines and mischievous gleam hinting at the hidden character within.

My team contained a healthy complement of cynical, jaded individuals. Men moulded by the situations and operations they had been exposed to over the years. And yet, without knowing anything of The Dirtier’s story, I watched how they softened to the old man’s presence. Gifts in the form of clothing, caps, shoes, were passed unceremoniously with a gruff ‘thought you could use these’ to allay any suspicion that softness or affection was involved. Quite surreal to see the transformation of The Dirtier from his ragged, down and out look to turning up in 5.11 tactical pants, approach shoes and a black polo shirt.

He started spending more time with his new British friends, just as quiet as he ever was, save for the fact that he would occasionally laugh when he saw something that he could understand outside of the language barrier. One of the guys returned from leave once and took The Dirtier to one side and privately presented him with a gift. With the assistance of an interpreter he was giving The Dirtier instructions for something. Curious, I picked up my coffee and ambled across in time to see the old man holding the side of his head and crying openly. It took a second for me to assimilate all of the information in front of me and work out what was going on: My colleague had returned from the UK with a hearing aid for The Dirtier. And it was clearly working. The raw emotion from the old man was infectious and I found myself turning away, some unseen smoke obviously irritating my eyes…

It was some time later that I learned The Dirtier’s story and shared it with the guys. They were, as you would expect, impressed and respectful of the old man and what he had gone through. But here’s what I like about this whole affair: These guys treated The Dirtier with compassion and courtesy from the off, when to all intents and purposes he was just a tramp with a place to be. Whenever I hear the occasional moron stereotyping military and ex-military personnel as war-mongering automatons, I always think back to my guys and their relationship with The Dirtier and wish I could show that person the reality.

When I learned Mohammed’s story I wanted to photograph him, to try and capture those soft eyes with just the barest hint of mischief. A snapshot to remind me that no matter what fresh hell is levelled at us, we can come through it without being broken. So here it is, a portrait of the man whose story I have just written taken in our compound on the day The Dirtier became Mohammed.

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Paperback on sale now!

Amazing to see the final piece of the puzzle done as my paperback version goes on sale with Amazon today!

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Only The Dead

Got my Author’s proof today and, obviously, very excited. To hold an actual copy of my book in my hand is a tremendous feeling of accomplishment. The reviews from the advance copies I sent out are coming in and they will replace the holding text on the dust jacket/cover.

So…not long now. Launch date will be confirmed and pre-orders available.

 

 

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