Shock & Denial

“So, why don't we start with the incident. What were your thoughts when it occurred?" I ask. The corner of The One Eyed Wolf isn't the best lit, and the pub smells of stale alcohol ingrained into the upholstery of the sofas. It's not the ideal place for an interview, but according to 'Eyesah', it's their regular spot, and it's where he feels comfortable speaking to me.

“None of us could believe it when it happened. One second, your mates are there, happy, smiling, calm, considering the circumstances, and then the next minute…"

The Red Fox's voice trails off for a few moments, his paws folded nervously in his lap. He fiddles with his thumbs, swirling them around each other like the loading animation for a computer that just doesn't want to boot. He looks down at his boots, eyeing a speck of dust otherwise tarnishing the mirror polish on his No.2 dress uniform. He seems almost out of place. The twang in his Irish accent is very distinct.

“No, none of us could believe it at the time. It just didn't make any sense. I heard the engineers talking about it afterwards. Something like a one in 25,000 chance of what happened happening. Normally the ERA on a Challenger's hull would have taken care of it, but I think after the first half hour, that was all already detonated and done with. Even when they were lifting us out in the back of the Chinooks, I don't think any of us had fully come to grasps with it…"

He sighs, reaching over to tap a cigarette out of the metal case on the table beside his seat. The scent of smoke fills the small interview room as soon as it's lit, and he drags from it for a long moment to give himself a short respite from the questions.

“It's like in peacetime, when a police officer calls you and lets you know there's been an accident, or they stop by at your house to tell you in person. You freeze and lock up in place for a few moments while your brain tried to digest it. In a battle, you don't have that luxury. You see your friend go down, you do what you can to help, and then you get back to the fight once they're either stable or dead…"

He seems to frown at the slight cringe on my face, as if it's an odd reaction to him.

“What else can you do? You freeze, and you die as well. There's no time to mourn, to grieve. One moment they're there, and the next they're gone. It hit us all pretty hard afterwards though, even though they weren't even in our regiment. We'd all been friends since we were young, and now…"

There's a slight pause. Ewan McGregor, Lieutenant, 22nd Regiment SAS (Retired), asks for a few moments, and I pause the recording until he's finished his cigarette and recomposed himself, neatening his uniform, the medals on his breast clinking together as he shifts.

“It's funny, the things you only realize when they're gone. How quiet our get-together barbeques are without Joker, no more of Red's playful banter on base… Mack doesn't come around any more after it all.. I think it's all too hard on him, but he's doing well with his wife at least. He doesn't speak about it much. None of us do, even this…"

He gestures to the recorder on the table between us.

“...is probably more talking 'bout it than I've done with any of the blokes. We just don't discuss it. They're gone, we went to the funeral, had our grief time, and that was that. It was closed, they were gone, and there was nothin' more to it."

“But that wasn't the case, was it?"

My question evokes a mirthless laugh from the fox, as if I'd just made some sort of satirical joke in very poor taste. He's quiet for a few long moments, just staring across at me. I shift uncomfortably under his gaze.

“Of course there was more to it than that, but nobody wants to hear about it. Everyone just likes to hear the stories about the battles we fought and the heroic things we did. You want a hero? Talk to Carcer. He got the VC for that shit, and it wasn't heroic. It was stupid, risky, and heedless of his own safety. He didn't think about his family, his kid when he did that. He saw what happened and he was out of cover before the fireball had even receded. Probably saved Mack and Foxman's lives because of it, both of them were burned to hell. Guess that's why he was a hero. Stupid shit without thinking, and dumb luck at not getting killed."

He gives me a gaze, almost scathing, like he's accusing me of some injustice that I'm not entirely sure how to respond to.

“There's your hero story. That's all anyone wants to hear. They don't want to hear about shoving your sidearm under your chin afterwards because you couldn't save the other two, because the stress and guilt was too much and you decided it was a quicker exit plan. Nobody wants to hear about how loud noises make you stand on edge, how you sleep with a knife, or a gun, just incase the shadows on the wall are real. The night-terrors, the shakes, the anxiety and fear constantly… People don't care. You're a hero after all. Hero's are strong, brave, not broken and jumping at shadows… The ones who helped us after were the real heroes if you ask me..."

He reaches for another cigarette, and then pauses, pulling his paw back, placing the pack back into his pocket. He sighs resignedly, rubbing at his brow in frustration.

“Yeah. Those 22 weeks made us all heroes. The poster boys for bravery and everything the British soldier should be. Look how that fucking turned out for us."

Grief & Anger

I was worried for you. Dragon's aren't supposed to worry, it doesn't suit our image, but we all were worried. After the pararescue guys had wheeled the white covered gurneys away, you simply vanished. It took us twenty minutes until we found someone who knew where you were. I drew the short straw. Eyesah was still pissed off at you, so he was out, and out of who was left, Mack and Foxman were in Hospital, Victor didn't know you half as well, and Ryan was still in the field. Aside from Ewan, I'd known you the longest. All the way since basic, when I was shouting at you for being a dumb ass recruit. You remember all that, don't you Izzy?

They'd said they'd given you their rec-room in the ready area for the pararescue guys. They said you'd been blank, and dark like a thunderhead over Leeds in the winter. They'd asked if you needed to see a doctor, but you'd insisted you were fine. You weren't. You knew it. They knew it. Somebody should have said something, but after what had happened, we narrowed it down to shock. It wasn't an uncommon reaction.

When I got there, you already had the sidearm drawn, ready to punch out your timecard. I asked if you were okay. You muttered something about it being too much to bear, that it had been your responsibility, and you'd failed them. I started sprinting as soon as you raised it, putting the barrel under your muzzle. You were stressed. You were scared, and the guilt was eating at you like never before. It wasn't your fault; Christ, why couldn't you have just listened? There was nothing more you could have done to save them. You're a stubborn asshole. I want you to know that.

If I hadn't moved when I did, you'd be reading this posthumously, maybe as a eulogy at your funeral, or a letter to Shadi along with a message from the ministry, regretfully informing her that she was a widow and her son was fatherless. Bet that would have hit you to little too late. As it stood, the shot went wild, and the pararescue guys are still pissed about their telly.

I tackled you. You shouted and cursed. We fought. I was stronger, larger. You were quicker, and better trained. After a few punches and a roll, you managed to kick me away, and I found myself staring down the barrel of my friend's sidearm. I'm glad you're just stubborn, and not stupid (Most of the time). I'm not even sure if you'd noticed the burns on your paws, or the gash in your forehead, but a combat high is a hell of a high.

I said I was sorry. I told you it wasn't your fault, and that I just wanted to help. You swore at me. Told me to leave you be, that you could make your own damned choices. I asked you if that was what you told Shadi as well. You lowered the gun. We both laughed. We both cried. You asked how the hell did it come to this, and I told you that I didn't know either. We limped to the medical facilities together.

I still miss them too. But we both have other responsibilities now, families, wives, kids… There's still plenty to live for. Just don't let the guilt eat you Izzy. It wasn't your fault. Even Mack told you as much.

You've got so much to live for. We all struggle from time to time with what happened, and with our experiences over there. Hell, my doc is wanting to up my valium dose to help with the pain and the shakes. Just don't keep it bottled up. Talk to Shadi, talk to us, talk to someone. We're all here for you.

You don't have to struggle on your own.

CSM Ryan Parker, 2nd Royal Marine Commando Regiment, (Retired),

In a personal note to Col Isiat Carcer, 22nd Regiment, SAS. (Retired)

Bargaining, depression & sorrow

“Took two rounds that day. Spot of just plain bad luck honestly, but fortunately, they were both pass-throughs in the left wing. Here, and here." Hunter pointed out the small, knotted circles of flesh beneath his feathers to the journalist, an average-looking human fellow. The wedge-tailed eagle was easily a head taller than the man taking scribbled, messy notes as he spoke, but he was head taller than most everyone. Avians had a habit of not being the smallest, especially birds of prey.

It was late spring, and actually sunny for a change. He'd chosen a good day to come over. The scent of grilling rissoles and sausages on the 4-burner barbecue filled the air, and the weather was warm and agreeable by English standards.

He was garbed in a plain blue 'Mind the Gap' T-shirt 2 sizes too large, and a pair of beige cargo shorts. His taloned claws tap against the wooden deck, as the rest of 'the gang' bantered around a wooden picnic table nearby.

“Of course though, I wasn't there for that mission, you understand. Not at first. I went in with the QRF, and came home about 6 weeks after everyone else, once my tour was over." He explained, lazily flipping over the burgers with a pair of tongs, gripped between his dexterous 'finger feathers' on the end of his imposingly large wings.

“I didn't see what happened, I only heard about it when we got the call for TIC with casualties, but Para-rescue got there first. Isiat was already gone when we landed in an RAF Chinook 15 minutes later. I just saw the aftermath, and what happened after he got home."

He shook his head, his beak clacking as he stared intently at the meat, clearly deep in thought. Slowly, he reached for the pack of Marlboro 100's on the edge of the grill, before lighting one from the flames of the grill, clamping it between his beak.

“Not as good as the cigars we normally have, but eh, you know how the economy has been." He chuckles between puffs. The journalist nodded, understanding.

“So how was it once you got back?" The journalist asked, flipping his pen between his fingers in an artful display of idleness and many, many hours of practice.

“Shit." Hunter snorted, his beak almost seeming to grin. “It was like everyone had changed… Yeah, we'd have all given anything to change what happened to Mack, and Foxman. They were both messed up, still in physical rehab when I got back to England. I was there at least for the memorial gathering they held for Joker and Red after… Still feel bad for their wives though. Widow's pension ain't exactly much of a living, and they had to leave the base housing too…"

He sighed, reaching for the already half-empty bottle of ale, before he took a swig, opening his beak and letting it flow into his mouth lazily.

“Nobody would talk about it at first. Parker, Ewan, Isiat, Victor… It was Mack who told me when I went to one of his physical therapy sessions, explained it all. Yeah, I'd heard things, but this… I could understand why everyone seemed to have rain clouds over their heads all the time. I stayed a night with Izzy and Shadi at their place, just because I'd helped him unpack and clean out all his stuff. 6 weeks and he hadn't even touched it, can you believe that?" Ryan raised an eyebrow, shaking his head in disbelief, before his eyes grew more serious, glancing over to the table before he continued, quieter now.

“He came out into the living room that night and just sat down with his head in his paws and sobbed like the world was over… Must have sat there for a good hour before he pulled himself back together and stumbled back to his and Shadi's room… Got honourably discharged the next week… You could tell it hit him hard though, everything that happened there. I don't even think it was all just that incident." He paused, checking the meat again with the tongs quickly, before casting another glance over to where Isiat was sitting at the table.

“Before that tour, Isiat hadn't lost a single troop under his command. Can you believe that? Almost 20 years, and not a single loss… That tour, he lost 4 friends in the last two months. Griffon, Hodgkin's, they were both in his unit, good lads, and then Joker and Red a few weeks later… Combine that with all the stress he'd been under at home, over here, just… Everything he'd seen and done. I think it was just the straw that broke the camel's back, the one incident that finally sent him off the deep end. What Parker told me, apparently he'd been a half-second from ventilating his skull all over the ceiling. See, even now. Just glance, don't look." He nodded towards the table.

The Journalist turned his head, taking a quick look before turning away, but he'd seen it. Isiat had one paw in his pocket, and his foot was tapping rapidly on the grass underneath. He was covering it up well, but even now, it was outwardly noticeable. As if on cue, Isiat reached down to his other pocket with his free hand, pulling out a small metal flask that he took a long swill of. At his side, Shadi wraped her paw around his waist, pulling herself against his side while whispering into his ear, trying to help calm the vulpine's shot nerves.

“See? It's ambrosia, some powerful grog his species make. Says it helps to keep his nerves in check, stop the shaking and such… Least he's not as bad with it now as he was. When he got back, he was hurting bad, and he numbed it with cigars and alcohol, and not in moderation either. Seemed like he'd lost his was entirely for a while… You should really speak to Isiat about that though. His missus is the one that brought him back from the edge." Ryan Hunter smiled, his beak clacking as he speared one of the burgers with a meat fork, offering it over to the journalist.

“Burger?"

- SGT Ryan Hunter, 2nd Royal Marine Commando Regiment (Retired)

Testing & Reconstruction

In his mind, Isiat stands. He flees the room. He doesn't want to be here, and it's obvious to myself and the others in the room with us. His multiple tails flick out of sync at the edge of the sofa, an uncontrolled show of his anxiousness. Then a small, tan feline paw settles on his leg, and immediately, he calms, turning to the 5 foot Amasii lioness beside himself. A smile settles on his face, and he mouths a silent 'Love you'. His wife, Shadi returns it, and leans in, kissing him on the cheek. It's a tender moment, and I can tell it's difficult for him to be here.

“So…. After the 22 weeks… What exactly happened?"

He shifts slightly in his seat, laying one paw atop his wife's before speaking.

“It's not what happened after… Look, let me start from the beginning. We'd been sent to cover a damaged tank that had lost a track to an IED strike. I didn't even know it was Joker's until after I got there. We were the closest available asset, scouting out the house of a Taliban higher up. Once we arrived at the scene though, it just became an utter mess. Insurgents just threw themselves at us, and at the tank. Like wolves going for the kill on their wounded prey. You name it, they brought it. AK's, RPG's, technicals, even a goddamn SPG and a MILAN launcher. Madness, that's what it was, total madness."

He pauses, reaching over for the china mug, steaming hot tea within. The words #1 DAD are stencilled on the side. Isiat has invited me to his home. It's a spacious penthouse of a large, north London apartment complex, taking up the entire upper floor. The view would be nice if the outside wasn't in the middle of an English summer.

“We had to double time to make it there. All the roads had been blocked off, and there were insurgents pouring out of the woodwork like termites. I'd already burned through two magazines of ammo before we even reached the site. The convoy that had been with it had been hit hard, and most of the troops had dismounted to seek cover in the nearby buildings. I spoke with Joker briefly over the radio, he said they were holding up, but then… We couldn't have even been there ten minutes when they brought the fucking thing out."

He sighs, reaching up to run a paw through his waist length ponytail, stark contrast to the photos of Isiat in his service file. After a moment, he continues.

“All we heard was a godalmighty blast when the missile hit. Blew out the driver's view-port and went off in the back of the fighting compartment. Cooked the fuel tanks, blew the engine out, and damned near blinded Mack from the blast. Red was killed outright. Foxman god shrapnel all through his back, and Joker got smothered in fuel, lost a hand to the blast… I didn't even think. I just sprinted right out of cover and clambered up the side of the Challenger to open the top hatch."

“So that's why you got the Victoria Cross afterwards?" My question seems to bother him, and he points to the display frame on the wall, the little medal sitting in the case along with a photo of him meeting the Queen, along with a plaque describing his achievements.

“For utterly selfless gallantry and valour under heavy enemy fire, Major I.Carcer helped to rescue trapped crew members of a heavily damaged Challenger 2 tank, at great personal risk. His bravery and selflessness were beyond all expectations of an Officer, and for his heroism, is thus awarded this Victoria Cross."

He chuckles, but without humour, as if to mock the description of his valour.

“They were my friends, and we'd been tasked to protect them. QRF was unavailable, and Medevac was at least ten minutes out. We got two passes from an American FA-18, and that was it… Mack and Foxman helped pass up Red's body, even as the smoke suffocated them and the flames burnt them alive. Joker came next, and he was… He was in a bad way, mostly because he was still alive, the poor bastard…"

Isiat looks away, biting his lip as if trying to decide if he should continue. He reaches into his breast pocket, tugging out a metal cigar cylinder. He unscrews it, and takes the cigar, lighting it with a few deft flicks of a flint wheel on a battered old zippo lighter. The faded Special Air Service flaming Excalibur unit crest is faded, but still visible on the front.

“His fur was all burned, right paw from halfway up his forearm was just… Gone. He was bleeding out from a dozen injuries, and shrapnel damage had blinded him. I helped pull him out and then got Foxman and Mack to help me carry him across the open while the rest of the section laid down cover for us. He dies onboard the helicopter back to Baghdad…"

He sighs, and takes a long drag on the cigar, the tip glowing a fierce orange for a few moments, before he exhales with a long sigh. The smoke wafts lazily around the room. Shadi gives his hand another reassuring squeeze.

“After I got back, I don't think I talked about it to anyone for a few weeks, not until the nightmares had gotten really bad… I'd wake up screaming and covered in cold sweat, the image of the burning take branded into my mind… I'd start shaking, my paw and leg whenever I went out in public, whenever I heard a loud noise, whenever I was driving down a road and saw something laying on the roadside that might have been an IED, waiting to end it all… I was…. I was a right proper mess."

There's a few moments of silence, and a soft, reassuring gaze from Shadi before the little feline speaks up for her husband.

“He was… I could tell something bad had happened when he showed up without notice months before he was supposed to be home. He was so much quieter, so much more distant. At home, he sat down, read his books, watched the telly, and that was about it. He seemed to return when he was playing with our son, Asher, and a few times when he was with me, but otherwise… It took him months more before I finally convinced him he needed help, and to talk to me about what had happened."

Isiat smiles at the, leaning over to bump his forehead against one of Shadi's ears in an affectionate gesture.

“Broke down was more like… I… I never let her see how bad it got to me. It's not done, you know? Seems silly when I look back on it, but I didn't want her worrying… Of course, then I started finding myself in the bathroom shouting at the reflection in the mirror with my pistol on the counter and a round in the chamber… I finally realized I needed help, and.. Talking to her helped a lot. We still see a counselor about once a month, just to stay on top of things, but…"

He pauses, and looks up at me. A smile crosses his muzzle.

“I think the worst is behind us. It still gets to me some days, and the shakes will never go completely, but… We're alright… It was hell for all of us. Nobody's ever sure where to turn for help with it, and after you get back, it's easy to feel isolated and cut off. Just gotta keep on fighting; Keep on surviving, and learn not to bottle it all up, because that'll kill you just as surely as a bullet will."

Isiat chuckled, grinning his reputed 'Cheshire grin' that he is supposedly notorious for. I can't help but smile back.

“That, and having a great wife to help is always a bonus. She's the one who saved me more than anyone else."

He leans over, and kisses her on the cheek. Shadi just blushes, giggling and turning away like a schoolgirl with her crush.

“I just pray that in the end… It was all for something, that they didn't just die for a pointless cause in a pointless war… I've got to believe that. Otherwise, why were we even there?"

Acceptance

It's early November, and the countryside around Leeds is covered in a fine layer of pristine white snow. The site works are standing around a large concrete basin torch, warming their hands and paws by the fire, their snow shovels discarded for the time being. I follow Isiat as he leads his son by the paw down the cobblestone path towards the towering obelisk in the center of the field. There are a few other people there, but it's a quiet gathering. The sun isn't yet risen, just a distant idea of morning on the eastern horizon.

His son's feet step quickly to keep up with his father's long strides, the many tailed vulpine garbed in his Number 2 dress uniform, medals clinking quietly against his chest with each step, the sandy beret of his former unit perched on his head. As we approach, a few other figures emerge from the crowd, each bearing a small candle and a red poppy in their paws. There are a few curt nods exchanged between them, and once they arrive, Shadi takes Asher aside. She sits quietly with their son in her lap, the excited pup looking around at everything with an innocent sense of wonderment.

Shadi sits patiently, ever ready to support her husband if he needs it, but Isiat just smiles at her and nods. He's okay, but it's clear from the look he gives her that he's more appreciative than words can express for her being there. He steps forwards with Danny, Ryan, Ewan, Victor, Mack, and Gordon, each in turn setting their poppies at the base of the memorial. In addition, Parker sets a pair of unopened ale's at the foot of the stone monolith.

“There you go lads. First round is on us." The dragon chuckles, looking skywards with a smile.

The minister from the local church is in attendance, checking his watch, and I hurry to find a place off to the side. The veterans remain standing by the base of the memorial, flickering candles illuminating their features. They talk quietly amongst themselves, but I only catch a few words of the conversation.

“About that time lads?"

“Aye, I'd say so."

Isiat nods to Eyesah, and then turns to the father, who nods and clears his throat to hush to quiet murmurs from those gathered. He nods to Isiat.

“Colonel, if you would lead us?"

Isiat nods, and the crowd stands, some older veterans holding salutes towards the memorial. Isiat just bows his head a moment, his lips moving silently before he looks back up, glancing over the crowd. His gaze settles on me for a moment, and I feel frozen to the spot, as if he's passing a silent message. Remember this moment. Honour this moment. I nod, and it seems to please him. He begins the recital of the ode, the words committed to memory.

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

Lest we forget."