by Helena Tym
He was mature far beyond his years - something that I can only attribute to you. He would talk about Rob with a reverence and respect that was perhaps a little unusual in a Rifleman. He loved his family completely.
I remember once, catching a plane from Belfast back to London. I was walking down the aisle and I saw Thatch with his cheeky smile patting the seat next to him. I sat and spoke with Thatch for over an hour about ISAs and PEPs, savings and capital, discussed the housing market and what we both wanted by the end of our twenties. I walked away wiser, having spoken to an eighteen year old with more sensible advice than me. That and all Cyrus’s wonderful attributes are a credit to you.
It would be impossible to remember or recount every joke I had with Cyrus or every fond memory, but a summer I will now never forget was in Kosovo last year when we were stuck ‘defending’ a forsaken monastery in the middle of nowhere. I bought a chess set and was desperate to play with someone. Who would step up but Cyrus who would play me at chess from morning until night? Improving all the time, I am sure there was a glint of triumphalism when he won his first game off me. I wasn’t surprised. I would talk to him for hours over those chess games, mostly about inconsequential things, but Cyrus could balance meaningful conversation with jokes easily.
The other side of Thatch, behind all the jokes and laughter, that I flatter myself I perhaps saw more than anyone else in the army, was his caring and thoughtful side. Thatch would always find time to confide in me and I would look forward to the time when I could sit down with him. He would screw up his face slightly into his thoughtful, serious look and we would discuss his future plans, his love life, other people in the Platoon, the fate of the Afghan people. Behind all the jokes Thatch would always be sensitive to how others were feeling and doing. I would always have to stop myself confiding too much in him, trying to keep the line between Officer and Rifleman, now I wish we could have spoken more.
During PDT training Thatch was a reliable as ever. It has already been mentioned in the eulogy but he was so competent that he could as a Rifleman, take a Section and lead it in a demanding attack completely unphased. He was central to the Platoon.
My next and last memory of Thatch, the one that I will cherish for the rest of my life was one evening in the FOB. I was the night watch keeper, which essentially meant that I had to stay up all night in case anything untoward happened. Joe Ells, who like me knew Thatch from the beginning and had always been Thatch’s Section Commander, was the Guard Commander. We were sitting in the Operations Room bored, when we heard Thatch’s and Pricey’s voices on the radio from Sangar 1. We told them to make us brews and they told us to get lost. The usual banter! Joe and I decided that we would go down there and give him a dig, he used to bring out all our inner children. We caught him on his way back to bed. He stopped, gave us that same cheeky smile and sprinted away laughing. I chased him, there wasn’t a hope in hell of me catching him though. We were in the green zone, in a tiny outpost, the IED belt was in, casualties were being taken across the battle group, the Taliban were closing in but that night, that part of Afghanistan, the FOB echoed to the sound of his laughter. I will cherish that memory until the day I die.
When I spoke to the Platoon after his death, I told them that I loved him like a son. It was the only way I could articulate my grief. On reflection I realise, that I hardly knew him, and if he could have that effect on me in two short years that I can only imagine the sense of loss that you feel. The only words of solace that I can offer are that when he died, he died surrounded by people who loved him.
As soon as I return to the UK, I would like to come and speak to you. I will understand if you may not want this and will respect your wishes whatever they may be. If there is anything you want to know in the near future I will leave my e-mail address and you can get in touch with me through that.
All my sympathy
Paul Mervis, OC 10 Platoon, C Company
Despite all the horror and anguish of the past few days, here was a letter from the front line, from someone who knew Cyrus, had known him over the past two years. Our connection with him, hope within this agony of loss. Yes, of course we wanted to meet Paul, talk to him, listen to the stories, and grasp one more chance to live the life of our son through his recollections. Here in this gloom was a shining light. Strange to think that someone we’d not met could suddenly mean so much. We so needed to meet him. I emailed him that afternoon: ‘Yes, please come and see us as soon as you are able.’
The fact that they all miss him so much hurts too. As Paul said, they only knew each other for two years and yet, in the way they live their soldier’s lives, they become one big family - laughing, crying, bleeding and dying for each other. They take it all in their stride - but hurt so very deeply, just as we do. My heart burns for all of them - these losses they have, these sacrifices they make, these men for whom my heart bleeds every time I hear those dreadful words, ‘The family have been informed’. They too are family; they too have altered lives now.
Ian phoned the next day. He had good news and bad; would we be in later so he could come to see us. What possible good news could he have? A mistake and they had got it wrong? Cyrus wasn’t dead - it was a case of mistaken identity? In my heart I knew this wasn’t the news we were going to hear.
We sat down with Ian, always so professional, so kind in this time of dreadful minutes and hours. So, to the good news - we needed some. Ian had been contacted by the Coroner’s Office and they had said that we would be able to see Cyrus one last time. Good news? To be able to see my dead son one more time? Yes - fantastically it was the best news we’d heard since that horrific opening of the door to the faces of those two men and their words of death which left a family ruined. How cruel good news can be.
But then, to the bad. Surely there cannot be any worse than we’ve already been told. But there’s no card too savage to be dealt. What a kick in the stomach. Lieutenant Paul Mervis (Mad Dog) had died in a blast in Afghanistan just that morning, ten days after Cyrus.
Of all the letters we received, dead men wrote the ones that I will treasure, the ones that mean the most to me. Other letters are written by people you know you will never meet or want to see - royals, government officials, army personnel, long-lost friends and Sir Alex Ferguson. Oh, how Cyrus would have loved to see that letter. How ironic that we got Paul’s letter the day before he was killed, so he wouldn’t have read our email. How monstrous - glue returns. Letters from families who have the same pain as we do - the same sticky substance in their veins. All of us now have a common agony. I want to give mine away - but who the hell would want it? More to the point, who the hell would I give it to? No one deserves this; no parent should have to bury their child.
I have a new skin. It doesn’t fit and gives me blisters. I wonder how long it will take for the skin to harden and get used to the new pressure points. Some places will always have to be bandaged and bathed. I don’t think they will ever harden and accept that new skin.
Sometimes, when I wake in the night, I think that I’ve got my old skin back - but then I feel the blisters start to burn. Conscious thought is cruel. My mind wanders away from the awful and zigzags along, making new thoughts. When I get to the end I always ask myself how I got there in the first place, and then all the zigzags unfurl and take me screaming back to the awful. I can’t stop that zigzag process. Why does it have to go back to the beginning? Why can’t it just stay in that slightly confused state, and not question the road it took to get there? My mind is torturing me and there seems no relief.
Perhaps the glue is depression. I hate that word. My mother is a psychiatrist and it makes me remember visiting old men in filthy pyjamas with their bottoms hanging out, in long, cold wards at ‘The Hospital’. That was Borocourt Hospital, Rotherfield Peppard, Oxfordshire, that had originally been built as Wyfold Manor House in 1878, and had been purchased by Berkshire, Buckinghamshire and Oxfordshi
re County Councils in 1930 as an institute for ‘mental defectives’. It was closed in 1993 and sold when patients and staff moved into smaller units throughout the counties. The main building was converted into private flats in 2000. This was where my mother worked, helping those poor souls who had lost their way - and sometimes we would go with her. Now I know how they feel - but I still never want to visit those corridors again. We were so frightened of those men with their grey whiskers and even greyer faces. Dead eyes - they all had dead, unseeing eyes. I don’t think mine are dead yet - just unseeing, shrouded in glue and pain. No, I don’t want to go there again - it was a cold and scary place.
I’m not scared - but I do feel cold. People we’ve met along this journey say we are ‘fantastic and amazing’. I certainly don’t feel either of those things. How I am is just how I have to be. I guess Cyrus’s strength of character came from somewhere, but I don’t feel strong - just sad... so very, very sad. I’m not the sort of person to sit and wail in a corner and tear my hair out, but I’m not strong. Perhaps ‘determined’ is a better word to use. I’m determined to make sure that the pride I feel for my children is shared with others, and that it doesn’t get lost in the grief. They carry themselves so well, my men, and I need to make sure that they don’t have to carry me too. I must use my own strength to move forward, not rely on theirs - that would be too crippling for them and I have never wanted to be a burden.
Have you ever been to the seaside and stood barefoot on the edge of the sea? The waves move in and out - no way of stopping them. Even if you dig your heels into the sand as hard as you can, when the tide recedes it trickles out from underneath them. My pain is like that. I can’t stop it, no matter how hard I tread in the sand.
Chapter 4: A B Walker & Sons
Coroners, DNA testing and Orders of Service. Why would I want to know anything about them? Where do we begin? Serjeant Major Lee Jones would help us (the spelling of Sergeant with a ‘j’ is unique to The Rifles). Body parts. Blast victim. Not sure what condition he is in. What the hell does that mean? Can we see him? Do I want to? No. Yes. He is one of my babies - of course I want to see him - but not in a coffin with white silk strategically positioned around him.
The glue is now in my lungs, choking me - trying to drown me. What happened to my life? How do I do this? Where are the markers? Where is the page to turn that helps me through and guides me along? There are no markers or pages... I have to make this up as I go. I don’t want to do this, but I can’t stop it.
Men visiting, talking about precision marching, coffin-bearing, Order of Service, cars and coffins. I don’t understand what is happening here. My family was not supposed to have to choose hymns or tell their friends that their brother and son had died. Someone is going to tell me that it isn’t real and he will be ringing any minute now, asking us to collect him from the airport. No - now it’s just glue and the flowers that need sorting because the water is starting to smell and they make me feel sick.
The Reverend Canon Brian Shenton came to our house because he would be leading the funeral service. Sitting at the dining room table, he explained the basic order of the service and asked if we had any particular items we would like included. He also shared his sorrow at our loss. We are not religious people and had not realised the significance of Saint Mary the Virgin Church, which is a Minster. ‘Minster’ is a title given to large or important churches, and Reading Minster is a Grade I listed building, extensively restored from 1551 to 1555 with stone and timber from the ruins of Reading Abbey, where Henry I is buried. Ian Tindall, our Visiting Officer, had suggested the Minster for its status, central location in Reading and capacity to accommodate a full military funeral. It was beginning to dawn on us that this until-now surreal situation was becoming reality. This very beautiful church that we’d walked past countless times on our way into town is, coincidentally, less than a hundred metres from the Army Recruitment Office where Cyrus made his pledge to Queen and Country just two and a half years before. Now this church was going to become the focal point of his funeral. It’s all incomprehensible.
The Canon continued and explained that there would be an opportunity to have a piece of music of our choice during the entry. The Sentences, followed by the Introduction, Prayers of Penitence, the Regimental Collect, the Lesson, a hymn, the Eulogies read on behalf of Lieutenant Colonel Rob Thomson, Commanding Officer, 2nd Battalion, The Rifles and a letter read on behalf of Serjeant Leon Smith, Cyrus’s Platoon Serjeant. This would be followed by the Address, which would be given by the Dean - then the final hymn followed by, at our request, the Lord’s Prayer, Commendation, the Blessing, and then another piece of music to exit.
He asked us what hymns we would like, and I was at a loss. Suddenly all hymns I knew disappeared from my mind. Rob said he would like ‘Abide With Me’ as he had always liked it, and it was one he thought most people would recognise. We knew there would be a large number of young people attending, and wanted this service to mean something to them too. A hymn recognised, even if only by the music, is still one they were more likely to sing. A second hymn seemed harder to choose somehow - we were unsure, then the Canon suggested ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’, which is apparently used frequently in Army services. He thought that once we heard it, we would recognise it. Before he left, he said he would leave the choice of the entrance and exit music to us, and that A B Walker & Sons would coordinate with him before the day.
After he had gone, we got out the laptop and listened to ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’, which in fact we had both heard before. It seemed the Canon’s suggestion was more than appropriate, so this was to be the second hymn. It was hard to find a balance, being non-religious, choosing pieces of music, hymns and prayers that merge easily and transcend all beliefs without offending, while being acutely aware of the honour bestowed upon us by being able to use the wonderful Minster. The Canon was incredibly gracious and simply stated that it was our day, to honour our son, and he would do everything in his power to make it as smooth and painless a process as possible.
I’ve never been in a funeral director’s offices before. We sat in the car and tried to compose ourselves before we went in. This is just not right, my legs won’t work, and my mouth is dry. I just want to run away and pretend it’s not happening - but I guess they recognise the look of the lost. The young receptionist said how sorry she was, that she had been at school with Cyrus and on her first day he’d shared a cigarette behind the bike shed with her. This can’t be - it’s not true, not my son, not here in a room in a box.
We were shown into an office and introduced to Carolyn, who would be looking after us, and who had been taking care of Cyrus since he arrived from the Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford. I remember noticing the paintings in the office and reception area, and thinking how unusual they were; black, orange and red naked men with their arms spread - going upwards to heaven, if that’s what you believe. Moving out of this life, and away from those that love them.
Carolyn helped us fill in forms - what we would like put into the paper, how we wanted the booklets to look that would be placed on the pews in the Minster. I’ve no idea what went into the paper and I’ve never looked at the booklet since. We talked about the music that would be played for the entrance and exit. We wanted ‘If I could turn back the hands of time’, played as we followed the Bearer Party carrying Cyrus into the Minster, then ‘Ave Maria’ at the end of the service as we left. We were unsure as to whether or not our first choice was appropriate in such a church. Carolyn smiled and said, ‘It’s your day - you can choose which ever music means the most to you, and we’ll make sure the Canon receives a CD with the pieces on before the Service.’ Everything was overwhelming.
It was then time to go and spend one last moment with him. Just the five of us in a room, our whole family together, for one last time. ‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ I whispered to Rob. He just looked at me and said, ‘Well, you can either come in or wait i
n the car, it’s up to you.’ I needed him to say that, to snap me out of my moment of panic and self-pity. No choice - no question about what I was going to do. I just needed him to help me stand. I should have been helping him - we needed to help each other and the boys. I felt weak and useless. I couldn’t do any of this without Rob.
The door opened and there he was, all alone, lying there dead. He looked so little in the coffin - pale and cold. His dark strawberry-blonde almost-red hair, was longer than I imagined it would be. He was so proud of his looks with his pale freckled skin, arching eye-brows and slim straight nose. Now his lips were thin and tinged with blue, he had slight grazes on his chin and forehead that had been masked to try and soften their severity. He looked so little. I remember him being so much taller than me - so lithe and athletic, so handsome. My handsome men... and now one was dead. This was just too much for one heart to bear. I was too short to kiss him, but I stroked his hair and face - his cold, hard face. He was always so full of life, always smiling. He had such corn-flower blue eyes, framed by long, fair eyelashes, and now they were closed and I couldn’t see their colour.
He still had the cigarette that Zac had rolled for him in Lyneham, together with the yellow clipper lighter. Such a small thing, but the effect it had on us was huge - how kind everyone was who had been involved in his final journey, to make sure that these items were still with him - a mark of respect, both for him and us. We took a bottle of Sambuca and a shot glass; the boys and Rob had one last drink with him. I couldn’t. We left the partially drunk bottle and glass in the coffin against his arm. Zac rolled him another cigarette and placed it in his breast pocket.
Captain Richard Sellars had asked us how we wanted him dressed. ‘Combats’, we’d said. He died in combat - he should be buried in combats. He would have looked so wrong in his dress uniform. He looked so wrong anyway - so still, so empty. Where was my boy? Where had his essence gone?
