A note from a military Mum

I adore all my three children. I am especially proud of how they are all so different. J1 is in the military.

This is not a family thing. My Uncle Bob fought in WW2 and inspired my love of travel, but he was not genetic family. Because I was a child, all I remember are his ‘funny’ war stories such as ‘Monty’ inspecting kit in Egypt. I remember he loved military marching bands and mum telling me he always cried listening to the radio from remembrance events.

J1 was not a child who responded to rules. Once, a school teacher rang up to complain that he had been caught in the girls’ dorm on a school trip and saying to FH, ‘He is not following the rules Mr Durbridge’ to which FH, who always has a witty response to everything said, ‘ The President of the United States (then Clinton) doesn’t follow rules Ms Blah’.

His dad left at a formative part of his adolescence. He cried about it for months, at the same time as he began to take earning money seriously. I remember once having to say to him, ‘I’m the alpha male here. Your role right now is to enjoy being a child.’

He did not stand out at school, apart from, with 3 mates, being extraordinary at drama. We often comment how this ability has been such a positive enabler in his adult life. He went to a less well-known London university and changed course in his first year, but at that point in his life his career trajectory went stellar. I remember ringing him up at 9am thinking he would still be in bed, but he had already been to his first lecture and had his focus list of stuff to do. He totally embraced through work and play all the best that London has to offer.

During this period he trained to be accepted in to the Territorial army. The men he met during this period, who were generally that bit older and established in their careers and family lives, were brilliant role models. They say a community brings up a child. These men began a process akin to an elite finishing school that the military can be.

Nothing was ever easy for J1. He got his motor bike nicked. A guy from the village pub gave him a job over the summer and one of his employees nicked a week’s wages from J1 which was proven, but never reimbursed. He got serious blood poisoning on the final territorial test and was in hospital 2 weeks and missed graduating at that point. It was a time of utter despair.

Out of it came the decision to join the military full time. I knew nothing about the set-up. I was a left wing hippy. On pass out day I remember asking the trainer why there were no black graduates. He said to me, without any irony, ‘they don’t like the cold’. Another time, I went to some kit inspection event prior to posting in Afghanistan and was horrified to see the sort of fabric quality you would see on an action man doll and guns that again felt like plastic toys. What shut me up totally was my son’s absolute belief in the cause; that he was risking his life to ensure the security of the freedoms we enjoy in this country. I was also at the interface of a stream of highly educated, physically toned, incredibly polite, well turned out young men. It would be impossible not to be impressed.

This has gone on years. My son has morphed from a perfectly adequate teenager into a sculpted angel. From text speak I now get the most beautifully crafted emails. The challenges make me feel sick. Everything that has shaped him mentally has been picked apart and spat back at him, ridiculing in the most bestial way his integrity and emotional intelligence. The physical endurance goes beyond that of an Olympic athlete.

Along the way have been those military colleagues whose maturity and compassion sustained him. Some lower grade guy who whispered to him when he was at the end of his tether that he had just come top in the last test, inspiring little notes from former bosses he keeps in his car, his team mates, who faced with equal unspeakable horrors still find that little bit of extra to reach out and give comfort. I don’t know who you are, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I also want to thank all the lovely women who have dated him over the years.

So, when the two minute silence comes, I, who perpetually slouch, stand up to my full height, shut my eyes and pray for all those sons.

I can say this because we have discussed this many times, but one day I may also weep for him.