I joined the TA for adventure and money – not the prospect of war.

The nearest to real harm was nine kilometers – a Scud ‘’nearly’’ hit.

At the time none left off the respirators – we would rather sweat.

Six hours in shelter under cover or trenches.

Never saw fighting, never were threatened by an Iraqi with gun or grenade.

I saw, as many did, the horrors of such weapons.

A kindergarten human shield – children with shrapnel and bullet wounds.

The soldiers – our lads, they were brave.

Going out, many times, to face Iraqi forces – wounded, scarred or killed.

I saw this pain and devastation, in suffering and blood,

Agony that results from bullets and shrapnel striking a body.

Seven paratroopers and an RAF doctor on twenty fourth June – I examined them.

Captain killed in the ambulance and his two companions – I examined them.

Twenty third of August – the survival of the corporal RMP, I tried to examine him.

The memories are not of war, or the ‘’peace’’, thereafter, rather the results of such,

Blood spattered bodies and the bags of bits.

Al Amahra, sniper fire, insurgency, bombs.

The riots; many of our beret clad troops earning skull and facial fractures.

Unrecognizable through the impact of concrete and rocks.

They were brave.

They coped with a knowledge soon they could face another angry mob.

They spent much time trying to calm things down,

Many more had injuries – I examined them.

I am not brave; merely sadly proud to have been there.

Certainly not for the medal – not for the stories,

No doubt embellished and expanded as age and distance increase.

Proud – the culmination of a career of thirty-seven years of preparation for war.

Sad – I finally faced that for which I trained.

Yes I was frightened, but we helped make a difference.

Many did good work and like me are home.

Some came back, never knowing home again.

I know I am not a hero.