A FORCE OF NATURE
Columnist of the Year Guy Grieve welcomes aboard a possible new colleague with an intriguing military backstory
Guy Grieve plays host to a mysterious ex-military guest
Ihad a visit a few weeks ago from a man who has recently left the Special Boat Service (SBS) and is now casting about to find his next life having ended his time as a Special Forces soldier. The deal was that he would come out to sea with me and my scallop diving team for a day, stay overnight for some grub and then head out the next morning to join some friends on a climbing trip. After a polite exchange of emails I agreed to have him over.
We get this from time to time: people who are curious about the rather eccentric and extreme way we have of making a living and who want to see it for themselves – although not usually in the depths of winter, when most visitors probably leave questioning our sanity. In the spirit of human interest I usually accept these requests, and in this case I was particularly curious to discover what kind of man he would turn out to be. I’ve always had an attraction to the armed forces; in fact in my early twenties I was hell bent on joining the Foreign Legion until my mother’s threat to disown me stopped me in my tracks.
On the day my visitor was due I, of course, completely forgot and was battling out of Tobermory Harbour into the murk when I received a polite text message asking where he might find us. With a sigh, and with my fellow divers shaking their heads, I headed back to harbour. I was now regretting my magnanimous invitation and thoroughly dreading the prospect of having a stranger join me for the whole day and night.
At the pontoons we were greeted not by a brooding and battle-scarred hulk. Instead a spry and stowable looking man stood waiting for us. Over the next 24 hours I discovered that he has a discreet modesty; whether innate or by training I don’t know, but it is a quality that enables him to blend in easily anywhere. He lightly boarded the boat with feet barely touching the gunwale; his obvious good nature immediately put us at ease. His eyes were bright and open, and seemed to possess a simple kind of cheerfulness that is so often lacking in most of the poor sods I meet these days with their shoulders to the wheel on Civvy Street.
He thoroughly enjoyed the day despite the conditions and made himself immediately useful on the boat. In fact he said a number of times, and with a degree of wistfulness, how lucky we were to have found such a good way of earning our living.
Later that night beside my fire he opened up about his past life. We spoke at length about the operations he had been on and of the deep respect he has for the ordinary men who joined up in the Second World War and who survived the most audacious raids and covert operations against the fascists, returning without complaint and pretty much zero psychological support after years of combat.
By contrast, there are now scores of soldiers needing help to deal with post-battle trauma. I asked my visitor why he thought most damaged people returning from the Second World War successfully returned to civilian life. His answer was interesting.
In his view those who fought the Nazis were engaged in a clear-cut and existential battle for survival. The men who came back, although often haunted by their memories, knew that what they had endured had been worth the sacrifice. Now, though, he feels the emotional damage to our men goes far deeper as the ‘fronts’ we fight on are often nebulous, some might even say pointless.
As an illustration of this, he described a raid his unit carried out on a heroin poppy grower and how the farmer had been hauled up by the officer commanding the unit. In obvious distress the farmer exclaimed: ‘If I don’t grow poppies the Taliban kill me. If I do – you kill me!’ It all seemed so futile, he said, like turning up to an earthquake with the proverbial dustpan and brush. After a couple of whiskies he opened up further, speaking of the utter sense of uselessness and waste he had experienced when he saw young men wounded or dying in combat, cursing the fact that they were dying for people who really didn’t want them there in the first place.
The next morning my visitor left at dawn, but not before I’d made it clear that I’d hire him in a flat-assed minute should other options not reveal themselves. I was gratified by his reply. He fixed me with his bright clear eyes and said, ‘Yup. Maybe you’re going to hear from me sooner than you might think.’ I’ll keep you posted.
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In my early 20’s I was hell bent on joining the Foreign Legion until my mother stopped me