I went to a grim and glum funeral of a good man this week. Like most of us in these circumstances it turned my mind to the meaning of life and the meaning of death and the boundaries between the two. For a period of his life he had been at the forefront of a battle against terrorism, and had suffered badly and bravely in that battle. In some ways his wounds were still unhealed 16 years later. He, and the community of his colleagues, men who shared some of his experiences, have their whole lives defined to a greater or lesser degree, both willingly and subconsciously, by their role in that battle. Lives of people who deal with IEDs are defined, to an extent, by their actions during a very small percentage of their allotted span. That’s usually OK, but not always.
There are understandable reasons for lives being defined in this way. It’s partly because it’s the summit of a pyramid of training and preparation for a challenging task. Its partly because you know most people will never understand what you do, and partly because the community of your colleagues, who do understand what you do, encourage it. But there are negatives that come with it and I felt uncomfortable this week because this man’s life had become defined by what went wrong at the top of that pyramid and maybe he couldn’t come to terms with his false view that an incident beyond his control was a reflection on himself. I don’t doubt the man’s capability and I often used examples of his specific EOD operations as exemplars to others about the need for thoroughness and meticulous thought when dealing with complex IED attacks. I wish I had told him that, God I wish I had told him that.
The shared experiences of brothers in arms are desperately needed in these circumstances. The glances, comments, language, attitude and in-jokes are a hand rail on a ship in stormy seas. Burton Dassett felt like Wootton Bassett on Thursday.