After leaving the Army she worried that her focus, determination and commitment might all tail off, but this was as hard a physical feat as she’d ever managed. Sometimes she’d had to cross rivers which ran waist-high around her. Sometimes she’d pushed on through snow and hail (it was Scotland, after all, where there are only two seasons, winter and bad weather). Sometimes she’d had to use technical climbing and abseiling skills which, with her MS, had pushed her to the limits. And always she’d needed her partner Judi to guide her, as she could no longer orientate a map or read a compass properly.
She’d done it.
‘I felt really emotional about climbing the last one. It was something I had strived for that I never believed I’d reach.’
The metaphor, of course, was not lost on her: the actual mountains she’d climbed were a reflection of all the hurdles she’d had to overcome ever since the drunkard in Hong Kong had attacked her, 20 years before.
Maurillia Simpson was also overcoming her hurdles. The man phoning her was someone who’d met her at a Forces networking event. He’d remembered her name and her enthusiasm, despite the trials she’d been through. He was in charge of providing security for the Olympic Park and Westfield Stratford City. Was she interested in coming to talk to him about a job?
She certainly was. And after so long with the odds stacked against her, the wheel of fortune finally seemed to be turning her way. Not only did she get the job, but her new boss then got onto a housing association and petitioned them to give Simi priority for an adapted flat.
‘I consider myself almost freakishly lucky to have ended up where I am,’ she says now. ‘I’m in the former Olympic athletes’ village. When I need to train, I make the short trip over to Queen Elizabeth Park, where my job is. When I open the curtains in the morning and look across London, my first thought is breakfast, not finding a place to crash. I’ve been able to imagine a new dream.’ But she knows it was close. ‘I’ve heard of many veterans that have fallen by the wayside – I could have been one of them.’
Simi takes part in several different sports, including shot-put, discus and sitting volleyball. But sports is not all she’s done outside work. The Welsh poet Owen Sheers wrote a play called The Two Worlds of Charlie F, a collection of military testimonials, and wanted soldiers rather than professional actors to perform it. The producer, Alice Driver, had been inspired by a friend injured in Afghanistan, who’d explained to her that when a soldier’s badly injured, ‘You lose your sense of self-worth, your dignity, your personality and what you always wanted to be.’
Simi couldn’t have put it better herself. Alice, who had auditioned service personnel through the Royal British Legion, asked her whether she wanted to be part of it. Simi didn’t have to ask twice.
‘It gave me an adopted family,’ Simi says. ‘I had brothers, and not just brothers in arms. I had friends made in a different sort of battle. We were all dealing with our injuries, our bad days, good days and not-so-good days. It gave me a sense of belonging to a team again, something I thought I’d lost when I lost my dream.’
The play is an ensemble piece, presented in a number of different ways: video clips, choreography, statements, communal briefings, enacted flashbacks and so on. Yet the most powerful section of all, the one which so many audience members said made the hairs on their neck stand up, the ‘wow’ moment, was Simi’s and hers alone.
Just before the interval she stepped to the front of stage and, her voice rising and falling with nothing but her own skill and emotion for company, she sang to the audience the same song she’d sung to herself while trapped beneath the wall in Basra.
Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heav’n and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
‘Let not your heart be troubled,’ His tender word I hear,
And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise,
When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him, from care He sets me free;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
COMPETITOR PROFILE:
PHIL THOMPSON, AUSTRALIA
When Phil Thompson says he only remembers bits and pieces, it’s neither a figure of speech nor a way of getting out of answering awkward questions. He only remembers bits and pieces of his childhood: ‘I have little bits of memory – what primary school I went to, what high school I went to – but not much.’ He only remembers bits and pieces of joining the Army, aged 17, and being posted to East Timor for six months with Charlie Company 9 Platoon. He only remembers bits and pieces of doing reconnaissance training and being sent to Afghanistan in 2009. He only remembers bits and pieces of his time in Afghanistan, though enough to know it was the best time of his life. And he only remembers bits and pieces of the IED which exploded a metre from him one day on patrol in Uruzgan.
‘I remember a dust cloud and the medic running in, pulling me out and checking me over. I don’t really remember much after that. I had stuff on my sunglasses, like little pebbles, so I couldn’t see out of them. I remember a ringing in my head, but that could just be – that’s always there so it could just be me thinking that. But I don’t remember much. Just a big dust plume, and the medic running in to help me.’
The reason he only remembers bits and pieces of all these things is that the blast left him with traumatic brain injury, as well as hearing loss, tinnitus, PTSD and depression – ‘I battled with the rollercoaster of mental health for quite a while, even trying to take my own life.’ He was given a medical discharge in 2011, and soon after – still carrying around a booklet reminding him what he had to do each day – he decided that this could go one of two ways: he could either wallow in what had happened, or he could use the experience to try and help others.
He chose the latter.
The Returned and Services League of Australia (RSL), which supports veterans, offered him a job as pensions and welfare officer – ‘The role kind of puts you in the space of helping. It opens your mind a little to what actually happens: what legislation people are under, the hoops people have to jump through, and I think it’s important that people know and understand that. Because when you’re in a fragile state, you want things done yesterday and that can become a key stressor. And then things can become bad; they’re not, but in a vet’s mind they are.’
Since then he’s moved and expanded roles across several different organisations, including the Australian federal government, but always with the aim of supporting veterans. He helps former servicemen and women find meaningful employment when they need it, and runs a peer support programme, where ‘we take someone who’s tracking relatively OK, and someone who’s maybe not tracking so well, and we pair them together, supported by psychologists. It’s non-rank focused and non-clinical: it gives them someone to talk to, like a buddy system. Talking to someone who understands us, like someone you’re paired with, that can help.’
He’s quick to point out that helping other people is not just altruistic, he gets the benefits as much as they do: ‘My mental health’s been up and down, quite fluid, but I’m usually in a good place because helping people puts me in a good space. It’s always very rewarding to see that I can help others who may have gone through a similar experience to me. I’ve been through some very difficult
and dark times but I’ve managed to come out of it. I think because I can speak from a true-life experience, people tend to trust me and listen to me. If I can save someone’s life and show them that there’s life after injury, that’s all I can ask for.’
One of Phil’s favourite methods of empowering the vets he works with is sport. He helps organise sporting tournaments for Australian veterans at five separate levels of competition – local, regional, state, national and international. ‘Sport’s so amazing. There is no wrong door. There is no injury you can come to me with that I can’t find something for you. People always say, “RSLs, they’re just about beers, pokies and parmys [chicken parmigiana]” which, yeah, everyone likes. But for people between the ages of 17 and say 40, they want to be out playing sport, getting active. Coming in with sport, you’re going to open the doors to the younger generations being involved. It’s not enough to say you’re wounded or injured, I won’t accept it. If I tell another wounded person that they can do it, it resonates much better than coming from someone who isn’t wounded, injured or ill. We’re not defined by our injuries, we’re defined by our actions.’
He pauses. ‘That said, if you’re an arsehole, you’re an arsehole.’
The question of sport brings him to the Invictus Games. Phil competed in the first Games in London: ‘More than just competing, it was the camaraderie which I loved. My sport was powerlifting, but as I was new to it, I don’t think I was as prepared as I should have been. But I was so lucky because the British Armed Forces team really helped me out. Their coach, Ben Richens, gave me some advice and allowed me to train with his team. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known any of the rules. I was now an “honorary Brit”. I got tips from the likes of Micky Yule [who lost both legs in Afghanistan and came fourth in the parasport powerlifting at the 2014 Commonwealth Games] and I made some lifelong mates. To me this is what the Invictus Games ethos is all about: countries helping each other in sport as we did on the battlefield. We weren’t so much competing against each other as feeling like fighting overseas, one team, all brothers and sisters. Plus, let’s be honest, I raised the standard of humour and looks the Brits were obviously lacking in!’
For the 2016 Orlando Games he doubled up as both competitor and coach, helping out with both the powerlifters and the wheelchair rugby team: ‘It was important to show that these things have a lifecycle. You compete, then you become a coach with what you’ve learned from competing, then maybe you become a team manager with what you’ve learned from both competing and coaching. You do your bit and then you move on so someone else can have the opportunities you had. It’s irresponsible to give selection to the same guys again and again. And it’s a challenge for you too. You become a manager, you have to think about a whole bunch of things – athletes, logistics, families, operational stuff – which you never had to worry about before. You can’t just sit in one spot, you need to create and be involved in all different levels, otherwise you won’t develop.’
He loved pretty much everything about both his Invictus Games experiences – ‘You get treated like celebrities. There are cameras, there are paparazzi, there’s royalty. But you need to be prepared, because it can be overwhelming. All that attention, not to mention the extent of some people’s injuries – in London the British and Americans had more amputee competitors than we had team members full stop – if you’re not careful it can debilitate rather than inspire you.’
Phil was awarded the RSL’s 2016 ANZAC of the Year Award in recognition of his commitment to helping younger veterans. The fact that any ANZAC Award by definition spans the Tasman Sea amuses him: ‘New Zealand? Isn’t that like another Australian state or something? Do you even need your passport?’
Whichever capacity he occupies for the Australian team in Toronto, you suspect he’ll be the target for some good-natured abuse from his Kiwi mates. And that, you also suspect, is just how he likes it.
4
HOW CHARGED WITH PUNISHMENTS THE SCROLL
Marriage is tough; marriage in the military is 10 times tougher. When a service member enlists, so does their family. Being a military spouse – and nine times out of 10 that means being a military wife – can sometimes feel like you get all the downsides of forces’ life and precious few of the upsides.
The man you love is out in a war zone, but he has his mates around him and he’s doing what he was trained to do. You, on the other hand, have no control and all the worry: that low-level, nagging itch that one morning the doorbell will ring and there’ll be two men in uniform standing on the doorstep, and just from the look on their faces you’ll know how bad it is before they’ve even said a word.
Want to talk to your husband on deployment? You can’t: at least, you can’t when you want to, only when he’s able to spare the time and get a connection. Even then, it’ll only be for a couple of minutes at a time, no more. No Skype, no FaceTime. You can’t ask him how his day is or what he’s doing, or where he is or when he’s coming back, because he’s not allowed to tell you any of that. You can’t tell him about anything bad at home because you don’t want to stress him out when there’s nothing he can do about it. You can tell him that you love him and you miss him, but he already knows that. You hope.
What do you miss? People always ask you this and they always smirk when they do, expecting the obvious answer. But that’s not what you miss most. What you miss most is just having him around, those little moments of connection between husband and wife: sitting on the sofa, laughing together at some cheesy sitcom on TV, standing unseen in the doorway as he reads the kids a bedtime story and they look up at him with wide eyes full of endless love, the cup of tea he brings you first thing every morning.
When he’s off on deployment, the house feels very still. You can hear everything, even the smallest sounds, the ones you don’t notice when he’s there: the swirl of the wine as you pour yourself a glass, the children shifting in their sleep upstairs, the thoughts and worries chasing themselves round and round your head.
So you keep yourself busy because otherwise you’ll go mad. Work can eat up lots of hours, family much more. You’re basically a single parent, so you have to be both Mum and Dad and do everything: cooking, washing, ironing, school runs, changing nappies, walking the dog, putting the rubbish out, getting the car fixed, organising birthday parties, dealing with teachers and bank managers, calling the plumber or the electrician, doing the tax returns, paying the bills. Everything. Even lawyers, because when your husband’s in the military then things like wills and funeral plans and widow’s pensions aren’t just abstract and remote, they’re there for a reason.
And when you do everything, that leaves no space for someone else. He comes back from deployment – the exact time of arrival will change at least three times beforehand – and there are the tearful reunions on parade grounds or docksides which the TV cameras capture, but once the front door’s shut behind you it’s not easy just to slot back into how things were before. It’s not starting again from scratch, of course, but sometimes it feels not far off that. The kids have changed, he’s changed, you’ve changed. Your lives are moving on, but sometimes in parallel and sometimes not, and that’s hard.
Then there’s all the actual moving. Go here. Go there. Go some place else. Once every two or three years is pretty standard. Once a year isn’t unusual. Sometimes you get a nice place on a good base, sometimes you don’t, but either way it’s not your home, not really. It’s not somewhere you get to put down roots. You watch how your kids adapt to this nomadic life, and part of you is proud that they get to be so good at making friends so quickly, and another part of you can’t bear the flipside, that they also get to be good at saying goodbye without a backward glance.
‘Ah well,’ people say, ‘you chose this life.’
No, you didn’t: you chose your husband and the life came with it.
There are lots of positives too, of course. A ready-made community wherever you go, a genuine sense of pride in helping someone serve his cou
ntry. And there are moments which will live with you forever: a ship pulling into harbour after months at sea, a military wedding with everyone in their dress uniform, a change of command ceremony executed with such exquisite timing it looks like ballet.
But in general it’s hard. Harder than ‘normal’ life, civilian life. But not half as hard as it is when you send someone off and get them back not still whole but in pieces.
Sara Trott met Mike Goody just before the first Invictus Games in 2014. ‘That was his chat-up line,’ she says. ‘“Do you want to come and watch me competing at the Invictus Games?” Not a bad line.’
‘And it worked,’ Mike reminds her with a laugh.
His physical injuries were obvious to her right from the start, of course, but it wasn’t long before she began to glimpse the mental scars too. Sara works for a company which pairs service dogs with people who need them – much like the organisation in Canada which had provided Christine Gauthier with Batak – so she was used to seeing people who were facing more than their fair share of troubles, but dealing with the symptoms of Mike’s PTSD was something else entirely.
It was the friends and families of other Invictus Games competitors who got her through it.
‘Invictus goes really big on families and friends,’ she says. ‘They know that behind every competitor are people without whom that competitor wouldn’t be here, and they want to show their appreciation for that.’ You stay in the same hotels, you take the same buses to and from the venues, you all sit together when you watch, so you get to know the other halves in the same way the competitors know each other.
‘It’s a cliché, but the military really is a big family. We all connected on social media. The banter aside, they’ve been amazing when I needed help. The first few times I saw Mike’s post-traumatic stress symptoms, I didn’t really know what to do. Why was he shutting me out? Was it something I’d done? Was it personal? So I sent messages saying “Help! What do I do?” And they’d all write back saying no, no, it’s not you. We’ve all been through it, here’s how we cope with it.’
Unconquerable Page 9
