Our Troops - My Thoughts

[Geo the Sarge]

Hi all,

I’ve had a dreadful 2 weeks in terms of losing 5 former army colleagues and friends. Two committed suicide, one died from cancer and another from a heart attack and most hurtful of all, one of life’s genuine good guys who was killed in an ambush in Afghanistan.

All the above were former or serving soldiers, all my friends (apart from blondes) are serving or ex military, it’s all I knew from the age of 17. I spent 23 great years as a member of Britain’s (and possibly the world’s) oldest Regiment – The Royal Scots (The Royal Regiment) sadly now disbanded a couple of years ago to become part of the newly formed Royal Regiment of Scotland.

These events coupled with the odd post I’ve seen on the forum have convinced me to start this thread. In effect it is some of my memories/memoirs if you like, of my time as a soldier.

I intend to cover a wide array of subjects concerning the Army. It is not my intention to impose my military beliefs on anyone but more to attempt to give you an insight into the mindset, not only of the soldier, but the families who support them and have to endure endless terms of fear and intrepidation when their son/daughter/brother/sister/father/mother etc are on operational duty.

Why me?

That’s an easy one.

I’ve been the soldier, my eldest son has been serving for the last 9 years. I have lost many soldier friends some whilst on operations and some not. My brother was killed on operations whilst we were serving together.

I have therefore felt the anguish as a comrade, a father and a sibling.

I will attempt to post daily until I feel I have nothing more to say, however what I'm about to post has taken a wee while to compose, look over, adjust and think, yeah that's about right. I apologise in advance to anyone who thinks it boring, to anyone who may take offence (it certainly is not my intention to do so) or who may disagree with anything I say. It will be scenarios I have seen or have had to deal with, it’s my thoughts on certain situations. Only my thoughts and I don’t expect everyone to agree.

I would welcome feedback and any questions anyone may have, I think some may be surprised at my answers

Yours Aye

Geo.

[kinboshi]

Sorry to hear about what you're going through Geo.  I'm sure we all are.  It's easy for most of us to ignore the true cost of war, we can just turn off the TV and pretend it isn't happening.

Whatever you say in the thread, it certainly won't be boring.  I'll certainly be reading it every day.

[Claw75]

I think this will be a very popular diary Geo.  Just one question from me in advance if I may (and a bit of a selfish one before I decide how much I will read).  My ex-husband served in the gulf and in Bosnia and some of the stories he has told me still haunt me to this day.  Is this going to be an unsanitised diary of what happens in warzones, or will it be toned down a bit?

[Geo the Sarge]

Probably the worst day of my life

17th March (St Patricks day)1993

I’ve begun with this story as it relates so much to recent events. Hopefully it also gives some sort of family perspective in regards to a loved one lost on operations. This was my families scenario and I have no doubt it is very similar to many.

This day started much as any other for a (then) Corporal serving in the border town of Crossmaglen. My Platoon were on internal security (guard duty) and for a 2 week period we manned the sangars within this camp at the edge of the notorious Crossmaglen Square.

It was just before breakfast, around 7am and I had just finished changing the sentries over. My task was to take each relieving soldier to there respective posts, check they had the necessary equipment, were dressed properly including flak jacket and helmet. Ensure they had sufficient camouflage cream on their faces (yes even in camp whilst on sentry duty.) I had to ensure that the soldier handing over the sangar had left it tidy and gave a full brief to the oncoming sentry of any activities during his previous 2 hour stint.

I then moved off for breakfast. I was pleasantly surprised as I entered the dining room and seen my younger brother sitting at a table having his breakfast. Lawrence was part of what we called the JSG group then, a platoon of  better than average soldiers who were based at Bessbrook Mill (then Europe’s busiest Heliport.) These guys had the hardest time of all during these 6 month tours of the province. Whilst they were based at Bessbrook, on any given day they could find themselves in Crossmaglen or Forkhill, two of  the scariest places in Northern Ireland. They could also find themselves in Armagh or even Belfast City depending on intelligence at the time.

They could find themselves in close observation situations, lying low in some woods for days and on occasions weeks “babysitting” some political figure for example, where intelligence hinted they were targeted for a probable attack. They could find themselves being flown to one of the many “Towers” the large outpost sangars usually situated at the top of a hill like Foxfield near Forkhill as a possible attack had been highlighted in the area and these guys would take over the sangar duties to utilise their exceptional terrorist identification skills to attempt to identify and record the movements of known “players” (known IRA activists.)

I collected my breakfast and took a seat beside him and we chatted. How’s the family (he had a German wife and a beautiful daughter who at that time would have been barely a year old), what you been up to sort of thing.

Whenever the JSG multiple (usually a group of three 6-8 man teams) visited your location you knew something was going on. Of course I asked him what was happening but all he would say was that the threat in the area had been escalated and they had been flown in overnight.

I finished my breakfast and went back to overseeing the security for the camp for that day. Lawrence and his group choppered out about 2 hours later, where they were going I knew not.

Fast forward to lunchtime and after ensuring the lunchtime changeover sentries had been fed and posted I made my way to the dining room for lunch. I was sitting at a table with a couple of friends when one of the operations room runners, a pal we called Budgie, entered and started to tape up the payphone, an immediate sign that something had gone down. Whenever an incident happened they would put the phones out of action. This was to prevent anyone phoning out and carelessly giving out info that should not yet be in the public domain. More importantly, it usually meant “man down”

[Geo the Sarge]

I think this will be a very popular diary Geo.  Just one question from me in advance if I may (and a bit of a selfish one before I decide how much I will read).  My ex-husband served in the gulf and in Bosnia and some of the stories he has told me still haunt me to this day.  Is this going to be an unsanitised diary of what happens in warzones, or will it be toned down a bit?

Thanks Claire.

It's not a blood and guts thread and if anything it certainly won't be glorifying war, only the troops that we need to do it.

Geo

[Geo the Sarge]

I approached the runner “hey Budgie, what’s happening mate?” The look on his face and the non-reply as he hurriedly turned away from me to return to the ops room told me all I needed to know. There had been an incident and my brother had been involved.

To approach the ops room during an incident when you are not involved is a no-no, even though I knew my brother was involved I knew I should not approach, it’s a discipline thing. I made my way to the Buzzard hut, this is what we called the small fortified hut at the edge of the helipad where all flights in and out of the base were controlled from it was called the Buzzard hut as the nickname used in radio speak for the flight controllers in the different locations was Buzzard. It was the second best place to be during an incident. All radio traffic had to come through there as there would be a lot of coming and going and the only way in and out was by Helicopter.

The sergeant in charge was a good buddy of mine, Brian McGeachie, we had joined up a month apart in 1978 and we were both Physical Training Instructors so knew each other well. “what’s happening Brian, any chance I can sit in and listen?” “yeah Dicky (my nickname then) but stay out the way in the corner, there’ll be a lot of troops coming in and out shortly, we’ve got a man down at Forkhill.”

“Any ideas who?” I asked. “no mate, it’s one of the JSG guys, they just flew out of here a couple of hours ago, looks like intelligence got it right this time”

Quite often “intelligence” would deem that a certain threat was high and would increase the alert state, rarely would we know what the increased threat was, mortar attack, shooting or car bomb was most common. Most of these escalations would come to nothing and the top nobs would pat themselves on the back that they had made the right decision and had averted an attack due to our alertness. I doubt whether that was really often the case.

I sat listening intently as all the commanders on the ground went about their business. It always amazed me that even in times like this with the adrenalin pumping, moving quickly if not running to the incident, the commanders never sounded flustered on the radio, always calm, hardly sounding out of breath, even though you know some of them have tabbed a km or so at speed to get there. The one thing I wanted to hear was the ZAP number of the casualty. I listened to the medics as they gave sitreps on the casualty and the pilot as he picked the casualty up and then as he spoke to Buzzard at Daisy Hill hospital.

I never did hear the ZAP number. Your ZAP number was the Initial letter of your last name and the last four digits of your Army number. If there was an incident and you were the casualty, your ZAP number and not your name was given across the radio and the ops room had a nominal roll of all ZAP numbers and could identify the individual involved. Budgie would have been privy to the individuals name and that is the reason that his reaction earlier had struck fear in me.

 Mine was D2754 surname Dickson regimental number 24472754. During roll calls we had a number of Dicksons so they would call out your surname and your last 2 – Mines was Dickson 54, because of this I love to play 54 if the bet is cheap enuff. Anyone who played Tighty’s Friday night sng at last years Dublin APAT knows the damage I done with the 54 in one particular hand.

[Claw75]

I think this will be a very popular diary Geo.  Just one question from me in advance if I may (and a bit of a selfish one before I decide how much I will read).  My ex-husband served in the gulf and in Bosnia and some of the stories he has told me still haunt me to this day.  Is this going to be an unsanitised diary of what happens in warzones, or will it be toned down a bit?

Thanks Claire.

It's not a blood and guts thread and if anything it certainly won't be glorifying war, only the troops that we need to do it.

Geo

thanks

[Maxriddles]

Geo,

I truely believe our troops deserve the utmost respect and I for one could never willingly do what they are doing on a daily basis. A friend's brother was back on leave from Iraq recently and he had a ball, how he managed to go back I do not know. I regularly complain about my job but I get paid a lot more than the vast majority of our soldiers out there with significantly less risk or inconvenience, it kind of puts things in perspective when I watch reports from Iraq and Afghanistan and see soldiers dying who are still only boys in age. I hope this thread is a success. It would be good for the guys in active service to know so many support them even if some do not support the politics which sent them there.

Sorry to hear of your losses.
 

[Geo the Sarge]

Then it came…………..”Dicky!! Dicky!! Has anyone seen Corporal Dickson?” I recognised the voice, it was my Platoon Commander, a Colour Sergeant, Mark McLeod, another friend of mine. This confirmed my innermost fears. I ran out of the hut. “Mark, it’s Lawrence isn’t it?”

“Dicky, you need to come to the ops room mate”……..”Tell me Mark, it’s Law isn’t it”………..”Yes mate, he’s been shot, they’ve flown him to Daisy Hill, not sure how bad mate.” At that we both wept and without another word said between us we made our way to the ops room. On reaching the ops room Mark says “need to leave pal, I can’t stay” and left. There I am, my brother’s been shot and I’m in a room amongst a load of “shiny bums” This is the term we used for operation room staff as the arses on their trousers would go shiny from the friction of moving back and forth on their chairs.

Some, not all, of these guys couldn’t really cut the mustard as front line soldiers and opted, in some people’s opinion for the easy life behind a desk. Radio ops (I won’t call them signallers even if they did take that title, in respect of Royal Signals Corps guys,) runners and the like. Some where actually musicians from the Regimental Band who doubled as medics and would take turns operating the radios and maps during incidents.

About 20 people in the room and I was the loneliest guy on the planet. I only knew Budgie who I spotted with his headphones stuck to his ear, staring intensely to the front and being too afraid to look up at me. Nothing more than respect, a fear of not having the right words to say or indeed saying the wrong words.

No-one said a word…………”what’s happening?” I asked, about three times without response. Then everyone’s gaze was suddenly fixed on a point behind me, it was the OC, Major Potter, a bit of a hardened Glaswegian and a great officer. Very unlike the normal Officer, from a rough background but got himself through school, college and university and had joined as an officer. His “rough round the edges” demeanour did not go down too well in the Officers Mess. I heard a story about when, as young officer his commander had compiled a glowing annual report on him that ended in one bit of criticism, in capitals……………..EATS CHIP BUTTIES IN THE MESS.

He was liked by most of the soldiers and had previously led us through the 1st Gulf war where he had won the Military Cross.

“Through here Dicky,” ………..rarely would the Major use your first or nickname in front of other troops, maybe on the sports field but rarely on duty. He led me into his bunk which was situated through a sliding door from the ops room. “ It’ not looking good I’m afraid” he said, never the greatest for diplomacy. “Your brother’s took one in the chest, missed the plate (Kevlar plate covering the heart area within the flak jacket) “I’m not going to give false hope, I’m just off the phone to the hospital and they say his chances are slim, do you want to make the call to the family or are you happy for the padre in Edinburgh to visit them?”

Predicament time for me, when I was working with our recruiting team a few years beforehand I had accompanied the padre to the home of the mother of one of our soldiers tragically killed in a negligent discharge accident. When we got there and she saw the padre she knew right away. She was there alone, no-one to comfort her and it was the most uncomfortable 5 minutes I’d spent until a neighbour appeared to comfort her.

I had not seen my mother or father for some 15 years, in fact the only other member of my family that I had seen on a regular basis was Lawrence once he had also joined the regiment. I didn’t have a great childhood and my mother and father where the major reason (another story sometime, maybe.) This was one of my reasons for joining the Army, to get away from them. However, I still wasn’t going to let my mother suffer the same scenario. Amazingly I had my wits about me and requested that I phone my Uncle Lawrence, a great man and always the backbone of the family. He was always the man to turn to in dilemmas. I hadn’t seen him for many years, however at the time he owned a caravan site at Little France in Edinburgh, which has since been bought over as compulsory purchase (bastard council) and is now the site of the new Royal Infirmary, so we rang directory enquiries and got the number.

This is where I surprised myself with my thinking in this situation, instead of ringing him straight away, I asked that we hold off until we heard a definitive outcome from the hospital, I didn’t want to phone to ask him to go be with my mother and break the news and have them hanging on to find out if he had died or not. I received the answer after a few short minutes. The Sergeant Major knocked and entered and broke the news that someone had called from the hospital and that Lawrence hadn’t made it.


I made the call and spoke to my uncle, who, with his wife, visited my father at his work to break the news. The three of them then went to my mother to break the news. I owe that man a great debt which sadly I doubt I could ever repay.

My next post tomorrow night will cover the trauma of how some of the rest of my family heard the news and the role of the media in reporting the story and other distasteful aspects of this incident.

Geo.

[Claw75]

sorry to hear about the circumstances of the loss of your brother - a true hero.

Heartfelt and very well written Geo - I'll be sticking this on my list of daily 'must-reads'

[Maxriddles]

sorry to hear about the circumstances of the loss of your brother - a true hero.

Heartfelt and very well written Geo - I'll be sticking this on my list of daily 'must-reads'

+1

[cdw1111]

Lost for words,sorry for your loss and thank you for your sevice.

[Rookie (Rodney)]

sorry to hear about the circumstances of the loss of your brother - a true hero.

Heartfelt and very well written Geo - I'll be sticking this on my list of daily 'must-reads'

[RED-DOG]

Wel done Geo.

[Ginger]

Lost for words, sorry for your loss and thank you for your sevice.

xxx