by Helena Tym
I worried about Cyrus and how he would cope away from home with people he’d not met before - a strict regime, and physically and mentally hard work. I knew that he would be fed and housed, but the worry about how he would adjust simmered under the surface constantly. Perhaps it was disrespectful, thinking back. Why would I doubt his ability to survive in the Army? He was tough - he would make it. I knew he would be homesick, as I know that Steely will be homesick - miss his friends, his bed, hot meals, his comfort zone. But I also know that Steely will draw on those reserves of ‘tough’ that he has, just as Cyrus did. As Cyrus said in his letter, ‘Fulfil your dreams.’ Somehow this has to be a good moment for us all; Steely moving to America and starting a new life for himself, one he has dreamt of for so many years.
What is it, I wonder, that makes some people feel the need to move away from all they know and have? Both Cyrus and Steely had everything here with us; good friends, freedom, all three of them independent in their own ways. What makes some able to pull away from their lives thus far, and seek different ones? Why has Steely chosen America - why not Brighton, with his college friends? Perhaps America is where he feels the music industry is? I can’t put my finger on what it was that made Cyrus join the Army. Possibly the need for adventure, as the challenges are not enough within your normal comfort zone. Does having everything make some (but not all, I know) wish to leave, and go it on your own? In my heart I am sure that they both felt the need for adventure, and some need it more than others. Independence perhaps - that feeling at the end of a life they’ve yet to experience, that makes them crave the new and unexplored. It’s not that I think it is a bad thing - I just wonder what it is that make some able to move away while others stay. That’s another thought that keeps me awake at night; the why and wherefores of our children’s lives.
Two weeks have flown by, and it’s time to have one more hug, stroke his hair one more time, feel his breath on my neck one more time - inhale him. I know I’m working myself up and I need to calm down.
The taxi is here and only three of us get in. I look back and he is walking down the street, pulling his suitcase filled with all the last essentials we could leave; shampoo and deodorant, cans of drink and sachets of hot chocolate. Shoulders square, head high, eyes straight ahead; so like Cyrus in the way he walks. Zac holds my hand all the way to the airport as tears drip silently down my cheeks. Rob sits, ram-rod straight, in the front seat. I’m sure I can hear his heart beating at a gallop. None of us dares look back though, so we just concentrate on breathing. It is all so crushingly sad, watching him disappear over the brow of the hill. When will we see you again, Steely? How long before I can feel the physical pressure of your touch? Don’t let me stop you though, my darling, life is to be lived, and this is one of many huge steps you will take without us to hold your hand. I just wish it wasn’t so very, very hard to say goodbye.
Two more birthdays celebrated, both in Los Angeles. Another year older, and now they’re wiser too, my sons. Men now, no more little boys - men who comfort me and make me stand straight, and not outwardly buckle, which is what I want to do. Weep for boys lost, but take pride in men created.
Thursday and we’re home, physically and mentally exhausted; jet-lag is cruel. My head is full of enough confusion without the added displacement that different time-zones bring. Friday, and Ian and Paul Beecroft, the Coroner’s Officer, come over at our request, to discuss the procedure we will endure on the following Wednesday. Only back in England six days after having to say goodbye to Steely, and now after sixteen months we will have to face the inquest.
Why has it taken so long? I know that many of the other soldiers who were killed after Cyrus have already had their inquests, so what was the delay with ours? Was there a significant reason, or is it just that we have found ourselves caught up in the court’s rota? This uncertainty adds to the pressure bubbling below the surface. It’s hard to have a conversation because my mind is distracted, and I’m frightened of what I’m going to hear, of how I’m going to react - of how I’m going to behave.
We are still unsure as to whether we should attend or not. Would it help? Would it erase my nightmares? Would it create new ones? I know it won’t change the outcome, so what do we do?
Both Ian and Paul said we could leave the decision right up to the minute that Ian came to collect us and take us to Newbury Town Hall. In all honesty there is no toying with the idea of not going. Of course we must go. We need to see this through, even though there is no ‘bitter end’, just a bitter taste that nothing can erase.
Paul Beecroft was carrying a large ring-binder which he placed in front of us on the dining room table, that so many months ago had been covered with photographs of the various stages of Cyrus’s life. The folder seemed to burn a hole in the glass tabletop - or perhaps it was just a hole in my mind. What was in it? Would there be photographs - ones that captured the last moments of his life?
We were given the opportunity to read all or part of the reports - some graphic, some factual. We declined. What would be the point? The only questions that to my mind needed asking were: ‘Was he killed instantly? Did he suffer? Did he realise what had happened, and was he frightened?’ I don’t know if the answers to those questions lie in that binder; somehow I don’t think they do, and perhaps we will never truly know anyway, so those pages will be left unturned by us.
Once again, sleep is impossible. Too many questions, too many visions, too much anxiety. On Wednesday, Ian arrived to drive us to Newbury. The atmosphere in the car was palpable - nerves jangled and I suddenly felt car-sick. I will never get used to being chauffeured; it will always have connotations of dread and fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of the known, fear of not being in control. Control was lost many months ago, and I wonder if it will ever return.
Once again we were surrounded by uniforms, both Army and Royal Air Force. Kind faces, stricken faces - faces that I find hard to place. Everyone was out of context and was nervous and fragile. Sixteen months has been such a long time to wait. Do these men remember exactly, or have their minds shut parts out that are too raw, too dangerous, and too traumatic? They would have to summon up the courage to tell us what happened in those last moments, and we would have to summon up the courage to listen to them speak. I felt very small and not prepared for this in any way. I wondered if I looked as grey as Rob does, as physically sick, as desperately sad. I couldn’t help him; I could only hold his hand, stand by him, as he was standing by me, and hope together we could get through this.
We were shown into the inquest room and introduced to Peter Bedford the Coroner, who was seated at the end of the room. There were two rows of wooden seats, and we sat at the front with the witnesses behind us, the press table to the right, and a small table with a jug of water and a glass for the witnesses. I was not sure what I was expecting; large maps, photographs of the area, white-boards and microphones. There were none of these things - only wooden tables and chairs, and silent people gathering themselves, steeling themselves, rehearsing their lines, eyes down, preparing to recount events to us as parents, sharing their sorrow and respect, but unable to offer any respite to our pain.
There was a brief outline on IEDs (improvised explosive devices) and their continuous danger to our troops. I think I heard what was said, but I couldn’t really recall all the information. It was not relevant anyway - he’s dead and that’s all this was really about.
Serjeant Darren Palmer was the first to speak. He sat with his statement in front of him, but he didn’t read from it. He spoke quietly, with compassion for us, but with frustration at the situation they had found themselves in while escorting the American bomb-disposal team back towards the FOB. He talked of the dangers, of which they were acutely aware, due to IEDs having been found and detonated just a few short minutes before, and the unusual sight of poppies left on a pile of stones.
Next was Serjeant Leon Smith, who half turned and spoke
directly to us, describing the sequence of events, the orders he’d given, the positions people were in. Listening to the softly spoken words, I was transported there - hot, dusty, dangerous. They were full of adrenalin, poised ready for possible attack. While the quad bikes were loaded with the heavy equipment, orders were given, soldiers moving into position, then massive sound, dust, smoke, screaming, shouting, confusion, searching for weapons that had been blown out of hands. Acrid smoke, blood, panic at the realisation Cyrus was dead. What the hell just happened? Is everyone else safe? All rushing over to Cyrus, all instincts on full alert but the need to go to him, help him, get him and the rest of them back to the FOB, and out of any more danger. All these visions in a split second in my mind’s eye, like the flashes of strobe lights - minute seconds of clarity even though I wasn’t there. Images seared onto my retinas. Leon was still talking and I was aware of the sound but unsure of the words. I was too busy watching - my mind scrolling through those pictures he’d painted.
Corporal Llewellyn Bryan spoke last. He had been the last person to talk to Cyrus, see him blink his eyes; share the last breath of air with him. The horror of everything is still etched into all their eyes, and talking about it, and sharing it with us doesn’t help. It only reiterates the facts, and brings their minds rushing back to those last moments. It shows us all how fragile life is, and how a sequence of events can end in such disaster and pain.
How did they cope once back at the FOB? What was the sequence of events, once they were in a relatively safe place? Did they scream and rant and rave? Were they violently sick with fear, anger and post-traumatic adrenalin? Did they feel the burning desire to retaliate - to make the enemy pay for this death? No matter how many years of training, nothing can prepare you for the death of a comrade. No whisky is strong enough to wash away the images, and no words can soothe any more. The taste of death must linger.
They sat and spoke to us quietly, with huge respect and affection for Cyrus. They retold their recollection of events on that dreadful day. There is no closure - no ending to this, no putting it away to collect dust on a shelf in my mind. Closure is simply a word used when nothing is left to be said, uttered by those who can go home to their families and continue with their lives without the gaping hole that we have in ours. It is not meant disrespectfully - simply misused. ‘Closure’ is for proceedings, not for people. Closure is the ability to forget. None of those who were there that day, and those who knew him that weren’t, will ever forget - so closure is not relevant to us.
A series of events, a step in the wrong direction, a war that is still being fought: these are the things that lead to Cyrus’s death. No blame - just questions. Who was the man who set this device? Is he a farmer by day and terrorist by night? Has he walked our streets, been educated in our schools and been cared for in our hospitals? Is he dead now, or do we still need to fear him?
In his closing statement Peter Bedford spoke of his respect for all our armed forces, and gave praise to the incredible bravery they showed, and their immense capability in carrying out these tremendously dangerous and stressful jobs. He spoke these words to the attending press, but they were directed at the witnesses who had just shared one of their darkest days, and relived the final moments of a fallen comrade. A verdict of ‘unlawfully killed while on active service’ was recorded.
This was it, then. The paperwork could be filed and we could all go back to our abnormal lives, try to make sense of what has happened and what we have just heard, then move forward - but towards what?
I’m so tired all the time, tortured by sleep deprivation and the inability to switch my brain off, as if in a caffeine-induced wakefulness. I’m exhausted but unable to shut down. Thoughts and images revolve constantly in my head - thinking, thinking, thinking - trying to assimilate the information, all the time knowing that all the re-living of events won’t change the outcome, but unable to fully process the information we’ve been given. I know too that my nightmares will return with a vengeance, piercing my brain, tormenting me with visions I don’t want or need. Madness has returned - the madness of a confused and weary soul, fighting the demons that laugh and tease, and make me question my sanity every day. Does it show, this madness?
How do I stop the vicious circle of self-pity, self-hate, the wish to self-mutilate, and the inability to function as a normal person? I guess I move with it and through it, allowing it to push me along.
Rob had asked for the GPS co-ordinates of Cyrus’s last breath. These we received a few days after the inquest. They too sit in the chest in the front room, slowly burning a hole in our beings.
If we so wished to, when Afghanistan is finally free of war and terror, I wonder if we would visit this place? Step on the dusty track, touch the earth, breathe the air. Would going there make us become a part of what Cyrus was trying to achieve by being a soldier? Could this give us something positive or would it mock our stupidity and romantic ideas about any achievements that had been made in his, and so many other people’s names? Would we go hoping this spot would or could offer us something? I think like the memorials and headstone, it will only give sadness and sorrow. All it would do would be to transfer those feelings to the side of a dusty track in a far off land that only holds pain for us, not hope.
We left the Town Hall after the inquest and moved towards the waiting press. We’d prepared a speech beforehand, together with copies, so no awkward questions could be asked. The inquest was over, this stage complete. The facts had been established, accounts pieced together to create a picture. A few words now for those interested enough to read them, then home, having said goodbye to Leon and the others. I wonder when, or if, we will see them again.
‘Today has been a difficult day. A day we’ve known we would have to face, and it has proved to be as hard as we imagined but we decided that we would not shy away and that we were going to stand proud and be brave for Cyrus in all aspects of his life and his tragic death last year.
For us as a family, the past sixteen months have been horrendous and before Cyrus’s death it was beyond imagination that it was possible to feel as sad as we do and we simply can’t see the next sixteen months being any easier.’
Everyone melted away, and I was left with the feeling of emptiness again - the end of one part of our lives but the beginning of the next, knowing nothing could ever be the same again for anyone who has been part of Cyrus’s life.
Chapter 16: Once More Poppies and Pain
Here we are again - November and all that goes with that month. I’ve started to wear my poppy pin. Steely has been in Los Angeles for six weeks now. I miss him, Rob misses him, and Zac misses him. The house feels empty, and yet there are still three of us here, moving around each other, touching sometimes and repelling others, like magnets. There is nothing bad in needing our own space and time to be with our own thoughts, but it is comforting to know we are here for each other.
Gun-metal grey: how ironic that that’s the colour of the sky today. The leaves are turning - but not as quickly as I remember in the past, or perhaps I don’t remember things as clearly any more. Grey, damp, windy November - not the nicest of months anyway, but now the malice of dying leaves and withered flowers touches where it went unnoticed before.
A week of engagements, all meant for the best, but all so difficult to carry out without feeling the need to tear my hair out. Putting on our brave faces as people want to see a positive; they can cope with that, while negativity is too destructive and personal.
Chiltern Edge School have raised over £1,000 for 2 Rifles - fantastic - so Rob and I went and collect the cheque, tell them what Remembrance Day means to us and let them know who will benefit from their efforts. I’m not sure they really understand; the only way is to have experienced our loss, and we wouldn’t wish that on them.
Wednesday brought something new: the March for Honour, which has been organised by Lance Corporal Ram Pattern of the Roy
al Marines, with members from all of the forces marching a mile for each fallen solider from Iraq and Afghanistan since operations began in 2001. He decided he wanted to do something to raise awareness, so the plan to do this sponsored speed-march began.
We met at the Civic Centre in Reading, together with the Lord Lieutenant, several Mayors, the press and, of course, the British Legion. We joined Ram and walked through Broad Street, cheered by shoppers and on-lookers, and met up with others at the Memorial in Forbury Gardens. Eileen Green (Richard’s mother) was there together with Claire, his stepmother. We had been given a wreath by the Legion and Rob, Eileen and I stepped up and placed in on the memorial.
No amount of support or the laying of wreaths makes any of this better. I wish it were that simple, but it is important to keep their memories alive this way, and also to see the support that there is out there for our forces, and for us.
Thursday was Remembrance Day, and we’d been asked by the Reverend of Shiplake College to come and join them for their Remembrance Service, and give a short talk on why we felt Remembrance Day was important. Strange to be asked by the College, as this was who Zac went to Kenya with, and yet the Reverend knew nothing of that connection until we pointed it out over coffee after the service.
It was daunting to stand in front of upwards of two hundred people and talk about anything, let alone about Remembrance Day and Cyrus. I felt that we managed to give them an understanding of what wars mean to those that have lost a loved one. Cyrus was seventeen when he joined up, and several of them in the congregation were that age. It’s all very well talking about the Great Wars, but none of us remembers them, even if we were affected indirectly. This war is so much more available - if that’s the right way of describing it. The internet, the instant news, and mobile phones make this an accessible war - one that we can watch from the comfort of our living rooms. So I tried to explain why it is a war that affects us all today, rather than expecting them to equate themselves to those grainy black and white photos of the hell that was WWI and WWII.
