ANGIE’S STORY - narrated by Angie’s Buddy

“For most of us walking civilian streets in our protected little bubbles, the sound of a helicopter overhead, rotor blades chopping through the sky, provokes mixed emotions; a jolt of excitement, fun, envy, perhaps even mild anxiety.

But for Angie, it’s an instantaneous reaction bordering on terror. In a millisecond of unconsciously supressed fear, it spins her back to an operating theatre in a field hospital deep in the heart of Afghanistan. Her helicopter is bringing in the next wave of casualties; young soldiers, some of whom may be barely clinging to life.

It is bringing the blood, the noise, the confusion, the smell, the unimaginable - to us - human destruction. Real, unstoppable death.

And she is one of those who is going to have to deal with it.

She knows that in minutes, young men will be lying on the table in front of her and instant decisions will have to made. If he might live, he goes there. If he is beyond hope – he is going to die - he goes over there. The next people to see him, or her, will be the funeral director, then distraught parents, family, friends. It’s over for them all.

But that scenario, the “luxury” of that thought process, can wait, must wait.

Angie has to work, under unrelenting pressure and with incessant speed, to try to save these young men; often until 20 of those long, desperate hours are gone and there are no more shattered bodies to be faced. Well, at least until the morning when, as we wake to our routines, it starts all over again with the sound of that far off helicopter and the agony that lies on its cold, hard, indifferent floor.

Imagine for a moment, having to do that for weeks, months on end. An every-day battle with life and death; a battle so wearing that it strips your conscious mind and leaves nothing more than the motions of an automation.

Extreme Post Traumatic Stress Injury and she has it in spades. The shrink’s drugs don’t work and so she hit the bottle to drown the interminable pain in her heart; the despair kicks in and she can barely function.

Then came the explosions of temper. Vile mood swings. Rage and suicidal thoughts. Guilt over those she had not even had the time to know the names of.

Dreadful domestic scenes. The husband she had loved deserted her. And, ultimately, the loss of the son she adores to the custody of a man who did not understand and who cared less.

In fact, the only people to care less were (are) the nameless, faceless pen-pushers at the MoD who spend their working lives behind comfortable desks trying to work out ways in which NOT to give Angie, and hundreds and hundreds of others just like her, support or compensation for the severe PTSI by which she had become almost crippled.

Now, there are those who will argue that if you sign up to “serve”, as those in the military so proudly call it, then you know full well – and should accept – that there is a real danger you are going to get hurt.

Well, they are disgracefully, ignorantly wrong! These are young people who DID know the risks. They DID choose to go. But they went not just for themselves. They went for us.

They went because the governments that we elect from the comfort and safety of our polling booths sent them there on OUR behalf. And as for our role? We have a responsibility, a duty if you will, to look after them when they come home!

Outside of those closest to me, I have rarely felt such emotional, overwhelming pride in, and affection for, another human being.

Angie’s story was just one of 19 others, different but the same.

Every day was another story of pain and darkness, past and present, which could tear your soul apart in seconds. But it was also, every day, another inspiring story of courage, determination and hope. “Adapt and overcome”, as the Marines will tell you.

Lord, how they are trying!

Every penny of the money that you so kindly contribute to the SWV fund goes to help those to whom we owe so very, very much. I am, and will always be, extremely grateful for such generosity.

Thank you, again.”