Risk/Benefit
When was the last time you were in pain? For most of us, fortunately, pain and the trauma of injury are random, or accidental, events. The worst pain I’ve ever had to cope with (touch wood) was caused by some shoddy dental work, and I recovered from it by gulping down scaldingly hot black coffee in a Bow café, with more paracetemol than any hepatologist would countenance. It passed, of course it did. A very minor and transient brush with pain. How many of us, though, go to work in the full understanding that life-shattering pain and injury, perhaps death, are part and parcel of the terms and conditions we’ve signed up to? Not many.
Read this:
At first I couldn't move or speak. I was in shock and the words just wouldn't come out. It was as though I was paralysed. My arms were burnt and bleeding with shrapnel wounds. Then I managed to move. I looked down and could see that my foot had gone - it had been blown off - and I thought: 'I'm going home.' I was gutted because I wanted to stay with my mates. I eventually managed to shout 'Woollard, I've been hit.'
These are the words of Private Matt Woollard, of the 1st Battalion, Royal Anglian Regiment, as recounted in the Sunday Telegraph on the 15th October. He’s 19 now. He was 18 when his right foot was blown off by an anti-personnel mine in North Helmand, Afghanistan.
The medics rushed over and patched me up. I was conscious all the way through the whole thing so I saw and heard everything. I could see the look of concern on the faces of the blokes and I didn't think I was going to make it. I thought I was going to be one of those guys who survives the blast and then dies later.
This man – this nineteen-year-old – has shown more bravery, forbearance and courage than I can conceive of. He’s risked everything in order to carry out the foreign policy intentions of his country, and to help keep the Taleban out of Afghanistan. As a result, he’s left with the sort of injury that would knock most of us down for the rest of our lives.
What’s the very least that such men should expect from their fellow Britons? That their pay and conditions will reflect the risk they take on behalf of us all? Well, no. If you want to make a living in the public sector, best to forge a career spewing foul-mouthed drivel on the BBC’s radio service, than to offer to fight for your country. Risk/benefit, eh? Do we offer, instead, to look after the families left behind? Hardly – the accommodation we offer is reputedly foul, and would most likely be deemed unsuitable for the least deserving on any council’s waiting list. (Even seven years ago, the divorce rates in the armed services were double that of civilians, and I doubt the intervening period has done anything to narrow the gap.) Do we ensure that soldiers are adequately equipped, with the best protective and offensive materials available, befitting the bravest and most professional army in the world? Of course not! Soldiers famously spend what little money we do pay them on bettering their equipment. And when they are injured in the line of duty, do we offer them the best medical service the world could offer, in order to help them get back to peak? Dream on, matey. We sometimes allow servicemen with the most severe injuries to be treated on mixed civilian wards, sometimes next to elderly patients suffering from dementia (how we look after the old: that’s another article. Perhaps just as shaming).
I won’t quote the Military Covenant at you, though it’s worth reading, and I defy you to read it while thinking about Private Woollard and not feel a stab of shame. We should be providing any man or woman who is willing to fight for our country the following: decent pay and conditions; superior accommodation both for singletons and for those with families; world-class kit and equipment; and dedicated military hospital services in Britain, so that the injured can be looked after in a fitting environment.
I heard Geoff Hoon the other day on the radio, blethering on about democracy or something. You remember Geoff Hoon. He was the defence secretary who presided over the demonstrable inadequacies of the kit supplied to the army, kit which was shown to have rendered soldiers at greater risk of death than was necessary. He denied any such gap in provision, although he quietened down after the widow of Sergeant Steven Roberts released her husband’s audio diary, a recording made before he was killed in Basra from a gunwound in the chest, where he complained: Things we have been told we are going to get, we're not – and it's disheartening because we know we are going to go to war without the correct equipment. What happened to Geoff Hoon? Did he step back from public life, to eek out his career in some activity more suited to his – let’s be kind – average talents? Not at all! This is the Blair-Brown era remember! He was quietly refashioned and now sits as “Leader” of the House of Commons, like some overfed, self-satisfied cat, oozing smugness, ready to lecture us sternly about the importance of upholding democracy. What did the designers forget to include, when they put the New Labour Machine together? A sense of shame.
Here’s Private Woollard again, learning to overcome his injuries at the Defence Medical Rehabilitation Centre:
Even if I knew I was going to lose my leg I would do it all again. Being a soldier is the best job in the world.
It probably goes without saying that this young man is desperate to complete his physical rehabilitation, and rejoin his comrades. I don’t want to peddle clichés, but I’m in awe of Private Matt Woollard.
It’s nearly Poppy Day. A piercingly beautiful campaign from the Royal British Legion asks us all to remember the many soldiers like Pte Woollard, as well as the many families who’ve lost a husband, a father, a son. One hesitates to make a political comment; in fact I won’t. I doubt it’s necessary. Remember the men who died for us.
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