Something Borrowed (Draft: in creation)

The 20^th day of November has been an essential anniversary in my life for over 30 years. Initially, it found a place in my diary as the date when, in 1917, the first day of the Battle of Cambrai took place amidst the mud and blood of the Western Front. Following a dawn attack, the British army made unprecedented gains, overcoming German entrenched positions and barbed wire with the mass use of tanks.

Church bells rang out in British towns on that day in celebration. However, two weeks later, after an effective German counterattack with the judicious use of artillery and stormtroopers, the Germans recovered much of the ground, and British casualties numbered more than 75,000.

Why was this so important to me?

Well, in 1986, I became an ancestral comrade of the men who committed to that battle. I was an unruly young man from south London with few prospects, so I joined the 2nd Royal Tank Regiment. I became a Tanky, an armoured soldier, adorned in all black, and forever after, to Fear Naught. Cambrai Day is our battle honour; a day that begins upon waking with ‘gunfire’, a potent mix of black tea and rum traditionally served to enlisted men by their officers before the battle.

On the anniversary of the first day of that slaughter, soldiers and old comrades alike will gather wherever they might be in the world to ensure the ghosts of those long-dead warriors of Cambrai are never forgotten. The day sails along on a tidal wave of alcohol and war stories. Drinks are bought for, but never drunk by, departed comrades of the regiment.

In June 2006, my calendar co-accommodated a second anniversary on that date when I met a similarly aged man who was to become a close friend. Our acquaintance began at the West Highland Way Race, where I was a positionally challenged participant, and he was the official sweeper runner. His first words to me, spoken in a languid Australian accent, were, ‘Hi, my name’s Keith and I’m the sweeper runner. That means you’re last.’

By 2006, I was a time-served firefighter and former soldier, so Keith's casually brutal but comedic interaction was second nature to me.  Our brief acquaintance blossomed into a mutually respectful and supportive friendship. The 20th November was my new-found friend’s birthday, so I made sure to wish him a very happy Cambrai every year on the anniversary of his birth. 

Keith became close enough to me to be the first person I informed of a developing romance with another West Highland Way Race participant, Lee. Despite Lee living in Scotland and us both being single parents, we successfully developed and conducted a long-distance relationship for the following 11 years until our wonderful marriage in 2019. I thought Lee was a gorgeous woman with the kindest of souls. She had her demons, as did I, but I believed we were perfect together. I loved her unconditionally and would have died to protect her a thousand times over.

As I reveal the third 20th November anniversary, I will not comment on the events that occasioned that date.

Why?

Although I am only arriving at an understanding of why they happened, those events are so harrowing that I care not to write them down. I cannot do so without sounding terribly aggrieved or desperate for sympathy. I am not, but please believe me when I tell you that this was and remains the darkest, most heartbreakingly destructive time of my life. 

The 20th November 2022. 

After retiring from the fire service, relocating to Scotland, and marrying Lee, life had become a relaxing, happy place full of love, beauty, and adventure. I had spent a total of 32.5 years in uniform, being exposed to trauma and tragedy, working almost every Christmas and New Year, but enduring so with a smile, assured that I had comradeship at work and love at home.

Then, after a total of eight months in that metaphorical rose garden, along came PTSD. 

I was aware of continuing hypervigilance but was no longer going to bed, knowing that I might be crashed out at any moment by bright lights and wailing alarms to some life-changing emergency. The ever-present fight-or-flight reflex calmed down, knowing the worst thing that might happen locally was the theft of a bicycle.

But fear not, Dear Reader, if you've attended multiple disasters over several years and decided you're too tough and hard to need counselling, those disasters have the habit of returning to you at night. Yep, dreams, reuniting me with the victims of Grenfell Tower, the Croydon Tram Crash, the Paddington Rail Crash, the Maryhill explosion, and a multitude of encounters that never made the press became a nightly occurrence. My sleeping pattern was devastated, which led to exhaustion and sleeping during the day. Whoever prefixed the term 'mare' with 'night' had clearly never really experienced the reliving of trauma during the day, too.

Dreams are one thing—we all have them—but flashbacks are another. They usually occur during quiet moments but are not considerate enough to remain absent while driving; being transported back 400 miles and any number of years is unsettling, let me tell you.

I remember being out with Lee in late 2019. We were joining some colleagues from Glasgow University for a few drinks, and we decided to stay in an inexpensive hotel in the town. I arrived before Lee, and as I rounded a corner and looked up at the multiple-floored, concrete building that was our hotel, I became suddenly cold and unsettled. I had been here before.

In May 2004, I was choppered by RAF Puma from London to Glasgow as part of a nine-man team to recover casualties and victims from the Stockline Plastics factory explosion. This hotel had been our base for the duration of our deployment. Even though most of our time was spent on the rubble pile amidst the death and destruction, we repaired here to shower and try to sleep. I never thought I'd see the place again. On my unplanned return in 2019, I checked in and was directed to a room that may as well have been the one I stayed in 15 years previous. I was right back there, with brick dust in my nostrils, the sobbing of heartbroken relatives in my ears, and blood on my hands.

Repeatedly being in the past, permanently exhausted and living among ghosts led to confusion and paranoia. It's a slippery slope of denial. I believed I was tough and resilient; however, showering and shaving became an effort. I'd always fancied growing a beard, but there's a massive difference between the impressively facially coiffured Brian Blessed and some apparently homeless, stinky guy wandering around in nothing but a grubby pair of Y-Fronts.