by Helena Tym
We were met at the hotel by Major Mark Owen, the Quartermaster, also Officer Commanding Rear Operations in Ballykinler, Northern Ireland, where 2 Rifles is based; he would speak on behalf of the Rifles at Cyrus’s funeral. We also met Captain Richard Sellars, Regimental Administration Officer of 2 Rifles, who held the Regiment’s purse strings and coordinated all the funeral arrangements.
They explained to us briefly what would happen the next day at Lyneham - that we would meet the coroner in the morning, who would talk us through their procedures. It was too much to take in and I felt exhausted.
That night, while we waited for Cyrus to come home, Steely ordered broccoli and stilton soup. Strange - he doesn’t even like stilton. He just needed to order something and that was what he saw on the menu. I don’t remember what I ordered; I only know it was taken away untouched.
We sat staring, unseeing, at our plates, while the plane of death rumbled high above the clouds, bringing our soldier son home. We were all so sad and heavy with the weight of the unknown. It was all Zac could do to talk, but he did - through clenched teeth, shoulders hunched, his face drawn and pale. I don’t think he even looked up through his shaggy fair hair to made eye contact. It’s not a matter of being rude or ignorant, because none of our children are; it’s that everything seemed so impossible. Looking directly at someone might have made it true, and we all secretly so hoped it wasn’t. We learnt to paint our masks on that night - a guise we still use, anything to make it seem normal. But nothing is normal - not any more.
The morning brought more officials the MOD-appointed undertaker (Kenyon Repatriation Ltd), and a representative from the Wiltshire Coroner’s Office and Air Force personnel, as the ceremony takes place on an RAF base, and they needed to brief us on air issues and the RAF’s involvement in the day.
We sat in a semi-circle, the other families in their own ones, and the coroner came to us individually and explained in a hushed voice what the procedure was going to be. He had been given the initial report from the medical staff in Camp Bastion, Afghanistan, which he had read. He didn’t give us any details, only that they needed to do a DNA test; I guess as he was a blast victim they had to make sure which bits were his. Surely not my baby, not in pieces, not needing to be identified by genes and chromosomes. What about his face? Could he not be identified by that? There was information, but no information. I didn’t hear what I needed to know. Had it been instantaneous? Please tell me he didn’t suffer, that he knew nothing of what had happened - but he couldn’t say. No help to me, then. He then said that they would take him to the Radcliffe in Oxford for an autopsy and processing before he was passed on to the Berkshire Coroner and finally the funeral directors. ‘Processing’ - what the hell does that mean? This can’t be happening, it’s all too macabre and unreal. Can we see him? That seems to be the burning question, but he doesn’t know because he hasn’t seen the body, and he doesn’t know what condition he is in. Condition? Oh God what does that mean? So many questions but none answered. Frustration takes over then - frustration at my inability to process the information. I don’t want to be here - this can’t be my life now. We are all numb, silent and numb, as there is nothing to say.
As we were driven through the gates at Lyneham, everyone we passed saluted - how odd. They didn’t know us, didn’t know Cyrus - they just stood there silently, saluting as we drove on. It felt as if we were the honoured ones. I wasn’t sure how to react to their sorrow and pride. It was so moving, then the enormity of it hit. There in front of us was the runway, huge, empty, and waiting. He would be landing there soon. How do I bear this? Hands clenched and mouth dry.
We appeared to be the last to arrive. The other two shattered families were sitting quietly, waiting. Waiting for instructions; none of us knew what to do; waiting for pain, waiting - just waiting.
Handshakes with uniforms - so many medals, so many ranks, so many sad and sorry eyes. Lieutenant General Nick Parker, CBE, Colonel Commandant, The Rifles, was the Chief of the General Staff’s representative, and as such was also the main VIP who took the parade (he was awarded the Knight Commander of the Order of Bath in the Birthday Honours a few weeks after the repatriation and became Lieutenant General Sir Nick Parker, KCB, CBE). He apologised for the formality of the procedures but explained that it is just ‘what the Army do - all this pomp and ceremony’. ‘Cyrus would have appreciated it,’ I said. He loved that part - all the uniforms, the total package of being a unit of order and history - just as much as the soldiering. I’m not sure that it wasn’t all completely lost on me.
They were so kind, those men - Lieutenant General Nick Parker, Major Mark Owen, Captain Richard Sellars - explaining about the order in which the coffins would come out of the plane. It isn’t by rank of the fallen but regimental seniority, and so Cyrus as a Rifleman was to be last. It didn’t dawn on me the implication of that, until we were on the tarmac. The padre moved silently, brushing against us with his words of sorrow and comfort. There are no words of comfort, not when nothing will ever comfort again.
Then we were there standing in the rain, not moving, just looking for the plane that was carrying death.
The uniforms were there, standing in front of the marquees, saluting, both Army and Air Force, too many names and ranks to remember - too much glue anyway. They told us to look left towards the clock tower; that was where we would first catch sight of the plane. The sky was dark grey and we stood there, chairs touching the backs of our legs. ‘We’re going to stand for him and be proud,’ Rob said, so together we did. The marquees fluttered in the breeze, it was cold and damp - typical June weather.
The aircraft was so long in coming; the uniforms still saluting. Eventually we could see three white lights in the distance and a bell started to toll, then the plane was flying past so slowly I thought it would drop there on the runway right in front of us. There was no air. Perhaps we were all holding our breath. Then he was home. The force of the feeling was physical. He was home - but not the way he was supposed to be.
Because of the geography of the airfield, it wasn’t possible to watch the aircraft land, so after the flypast we were taken back into the terminal building to watch via CCTV screens. We then had to wait for the Air Force to clear the plane of any defence systems, and carry out safety checks, which took about an hour.
RAF catering staff provided food for us, but the smell made me feel so sick I asked if it could be taken away. What on earth made them think we’d be able to eat at a time like this? Lieutenant General Nick Parker came and sat with us. He was covered in medals and he had the largest hands I’ve ever seen. What a nice man - what a disgusting way to have to meet him. We talked in whispers - there were the other families too, looking as lost and confused as we were, talking to the other battalions’ representatives.
The padre moved between the families and recited each regiment’s collect - a short prayer. I wasn’t aware of hearing the other ones, only the Rifles’:
O Almighty God, the sure stronghold of each succeeding age, guard us your servants of The Rifles, that we may uphold and be worthy of the great traditions of our former Regiments; and as we were chosen to be swift and bold, may we seek with courage your grace in every time of need, and so be patient and persevere in running the race that is set before us, as did your son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
It’s the ‘swift and bold’ (often written in its Latin form Celer et Audax) that makes me choke. It describes Riflemen so well. ‘Fearless’ perhaps should be in there somewhere - I’m sure they do have fear, but take it all in their stride, going with the flow of their job and what it means to be a soldier.
Eventually they called us outside again. To stand so close to that plane was almost frightening. These aircraft are enormous and I felt small. The back was open and the first Bearer Party moved up the ramp and disappeared into the plane. It seemed an age before they were back in sight, bearing the first coffin. Twice we wat
ched as each of the regiments’ Bearer Parties moved on to and out of the plane: then it was Cyrus. Moving backwards, Serjeant Major Lee Jones directed them down towards the tarmac to the sound of The Last Post. There was no air - how can I breathe? How can this coffin that’s draped in a flag have someone so dear inside? How can he be dead?
They walked so slowly, so precisely, with such pride and sadness. Those men with their shiny boots and solemn faces, carefully carrying his coffin to the waiting hearse. There was no other noise that I remember - only the rain and the bugle sounding Reveille as the wheels of the hearse started to move off towards the Chapel of Rest. It was the first time we’d heard those bugles in context and my blood turned to ice, every hair on my body stood up, goose pimples ran across my skin and into my heart. Haunting is the only way I can describe it - clear notes played with such passion, projecting such pride, notes to call to arms, notes to say goodbye, notes I wish I’d never had to hear. It is their final farewell, and symbolises that the duty of the dead is over and they can rest in peace. It is impossible to control the lump in your throat and the tears that follow.
We met them - the Bearer Party - inside, away from the runway and the plane of death. What could we say? None of us knew where to look. No one could bear to look into our eyes, and I couldn’t bear to look into theirs. How many more of these awful days will they have to go through? They volunteer to do this - amazing.
After a long embarrassing silence, T, one of the of bearer party, decided to recount a story of when he and Cyrus were in Kosovo as part of a Peace-Keeping Force, leading up to and during their national elections. They had been tasked with protecting monasteries and churches, and on this particular day a wedding was taking place. Apparently Cyrus - ‘Thatch’ - decided to make himself scarce. The next thing they knew, on the top steps of the church, right in the middle of the wedding party, was Thatch with his cheeky grin, posing for the family photos. T said he would miss him, as he was the morale of the platoon, the one who always had a smile, a giggle, and a kind word, the one who was always ‘up for it’ - the one who had so much more to give and live for.
While we waited for the coffins to be taken to the Chapel of Rest, I found I was beginning to feel light-headed, and they kindly brought back the plates of food I’d sent away earlier. We all had a small sandwich, which helped take away some of the nausea. One of the Royal Air Force personnel came and asked us if we’d like to go and look inside the plane. As we walked towards it, the sheer size became apparent. I’d expected it to be empty, but as we walked up the rear ramp we saw that the whole crew were there, standing to attention. It was so unexpected, them saluting - again that feeling of everything being surreal, people saluting us and we were not even in the Army. We shook their hands and thanked them for looking after Cyrus on the way home. They smiled sadly and said that it was an honour, the least they could do, and told us that each of the boys had been accompanied by someone the whole journey, sitting with the coffin, making sure that they are not left on their own at any stage. Strange how you don’t think along those lines as a civilian, the services criss-cross and help each other in ways I’d not really considered. It was humbling and very comforting to think that he’d not been on his own inside that huge hollow, draughty space filled with strapping and clamps, metal seats running along the fuselage - not a comfortable place to spend hour upon noisy hour, flying in the plane of death. Perhaps that’s just a ‘mother’ thing, comforting, knowing he had not been left alone. It is also because his body was effectively ‘a crime scene’, as he had been unlawfully killed.
It was now approaching twenty hours since we’d left home, every hour getting worse, leading us towards the moment when we would be with him again. Dread fills each segment of time. We have no idea what to expect, and don’t know how we’ll react. Will my knees buckle? Will I die myself?
An RAF car took us to the Chapel of Rest. It was quiet and surrounded by flowers, and the padre was waiting outside, in case we needed him. Thoughtful, but I only needed one thing and he couldn’t perform that miracle. It smelt of new wood. There were several doors, one for each family, one for each hero, one for each agony. We were shown into a small room and there it was - his Union Flag-draped coffin. I touched it, and it was cold. We ran our hands over it, trying to get a feel of him through the wood and fabric. I lay my head where I guessed his chest would be. Where was he? I knew he was home but I couldn’t feel him. How do we go on?
Zac stood rolling a cigarette; stupidly I said, ‘You can’t smoke in here.’ Of course he wasn’t going to smoke, what was I thinking? He just looked at me and kept on rolling. He placed the completed cigarette on the coffin, together with a yellow clipper lighter. ‘One for the road, mate,’ he whispered.
Who knows how long we were there, touching the coffin? We read the prayer that had been left in leaflets with a red cross on the front. Soothing words of a religion I don’t have or understand. His name was in them so we took them. They were ours.
The car was waiting outside to take us back to the hangar. All I wanted was to go home, but Ian explained we had to stay here at Lyneham while the cortege was driven through the village of Wootton Bassett, where an informal public ceremony is held every time one of our fallen men or women comes home. The whole town centre stops: shopkeepers, the general public, service personnel, friends and relatives come together standing on the pavements lining the main street, weeping as the cortege slowly makes its way through. A bell tolls and everything falls silent, flowers are thrown, the British Legion in its finery stands to attention, Standard Bearers proudly salute and lay down their Standards. Changes not long after Cyrus’s repatriation mean that any family members present at RAF Lyneham are now taken ahead of the cortege to stand and wait in Wootton Bassett town centre by the Memorial, where the hearse comes to a brief stop. We didn’t do that - we had to wait at the air base until the town’s streets had cleared of mourners. Our ceremony was a private one at RAF Lyneham; the public one is in Wootton Bassett.
Later that evening we learned that several of Zac’s and Cyrus’s friends had joined the mourners at Wootton Bassett and had stood in the crowd at the side of the main road waiting, wondering which of the three hearses his coffin would be in. When they saw the yellow clipper lighter on the coffin in the last hearse they knew. I’m so glad that Zac did that - it was a marker in more ways than one. How lovely of them to make the journey down the motorway, perhaps they too had to make sure it was real and not a mistake.
The final part of an exhausting day awaited us. As we got into the car, Ian handed us a manila envelope. At some stage we’d been asked, although I’ve no idea by whom, if there were any personal items of Cyrus’s that we would like to come back with his body. We had asked for his camera and iPod. We opened the envelope and along with his iPod and camera was a free-post airmail letter used by the forces known as a bluey, from Stewart Elliott who was still out in Afghanistan.
Stewart and Cyrus had become best friends, a friendship that began when Cyrus was posted to Northern Ireland in January 2008. We only knew Stewart as Elliott, the reason being that within the Army first names rarely apply - Cyrus was known as Thatch. Over a period of time we were to hear of Youngy, Willo, Fun Time, Tommo, Moni, Smudge, Mad Dog, Marshy, Stracs, Malou, Reedy, Mac, Vaughny, Joe and G.
In his letter, Elliott wrote that he and Cyrus had made a promise to each other, that should anything happen they would let the other one’s family know that they had left a letter that was only to be read in the event of their death. In Elliott’s letter he said that Cyrus had told him it was hidden on the top of our kitchen units.
I don’t really remember the drive home. I think the boys slept. I could not. It didn’t seem right that I should sleep - have the pleasure of forgetting for a few minutes. Sleep is both a relief and guilt. It has become easier, but the nightmares still trickle in night after night, stealing into the corners that I thought I’d kept safe - corner
s that I thought no one could see, or fit into. They are my corners, but then they are my dreams, so I guess they go hand in hand. My nightmares are like a movie, and they come with their own soundtrack. I wish I could turn the sound down and switch the movie off.
Chapter 3: Lieutenant Paul Mervis
Back at home, too exhausted to think but strangely elated because Elliott had told us that Cyrus had written to us. Rob spent ages looking in, on and under the kitchen cupboards, but he couldn’t find the letter. It was so disappointing - we were desperate to find it, thinking that it might make us feel better somehow, or at least give us a chance to be close to him again through his words.
The next day, Saturday, Rob and I went down to Glastonbury to see his dad and step-mother. Rob is the middle of five children, and when he was ten his parents divorced. Rob chose to live with his dad. His relationship with his mother and siblings never really recovered from this split and they now have little contact.
There is a strange sense of duty that comes from both Rob and his dad that, to me, is sometimes hard to fathom. They have an unusual relationship in that, as a child and teenager, Rob was left to his own devices with little or no direction from his father. At one stage Social Services were alerted to this situation, and there was the threat of Rob being taken into care. During several home visits by social workers, Rob made it perfectly clear that if they did take him into care, he would run away and go back to his dad. It was decided that living with his father was probably best for him in the long term.
I have known Rob’s dad since I was thirteen, when Rob and I first met. I spent a lot of time at their house as a teenager, and was accepted as part of Rob’s circle of friends. However, the stronger my relationship became with Rob, the harder it was to hold on to a relationship with his dad. I think the final straw, in his eyes, was when many years later, Rob and I decided to buy a house together. He looked at this as me taking his son away which, added to my speaking well and having an opinion, I am sure makes him feel threatened by me, and no amount of effort on my part over the years has changed this. He has never liked his authority challenged, and in the past has openly undermined and disagreed with the way Rob and I have brought the boys up.
