Dole Boys
By Blood In The SandI logged onto Face book last night and saw some words that filled my veins with ice and left me feeling hollow and desperate.
They were written by my friend. He's unemployed and a smack head. You'll find him most days sitting in a pool of blood/sick/shit shouting at passers by. He's not worked for years...
It's the in thing right now to put the boot into folk like my mate. Poncing off the state, a waste of space oxygen thieving bastard right? That's one description I suppose but I prefer 'Veteran.'
I went to war with him once. We walked down Basra road together, murder mile. Body after body lay where they had died. The stench of blood, cordite, roasted meat and petrol stung my nose.
I saw my mate sitting down next to a mangled heap of twisted metal, flesh, bone and misery. He was smoking a cigarette and tapping his fingers on his helmet.
'You OK mate?' I asked, then wished I hadn't. How could any of us be OK in that shit hole.
He nodded at me. 'Yeah man, it's all just a bit... Well you know.' I nodded back, I was 19 years old and dead teenagers were all around me. My mate was 17 and we called him Junior.
Junior came home a little different, we all did. He then went to Bosnia and then he left the army. No longer part of the machine he turned to drugs to take away them dead kids on that piece of road that took a bite out of our souls.
I saw him a couple of months ago, he looks 60 years old now, he's 37. We stood in the line, carried rifles and saw things that hurt us inside. Tears have fallen, veins have filled with heroin and we still walk the road.
We live among society, some of us in jails, others in the gutter. What we need isn't pity, it's a hand. Junior has mine and last night was a cry for help. Others won't be heard.
I wrote some words once...
Veteran.
It isn't nice to have to beg the country you once served,
On bended knee with cap in hand a fate quite undeserved.
Once shiny boots now gather dust and medals hide away,
And dead men crawl through silent dreams when darkness steals the day.
Be the best the small screen cried enlist before the crown,
How many of the best are now locked up in iron towns.
The freedom they once fought to save is no longer theirs,
These broken troops a burden on societys affairs.
And what of those who gibber nightly screaming in their beds
As worms crawl through the the faces of the teenage freshly dead.
And dare not mention names of those who could not bear this strife,
Who with rope or blade or happy pills did away with life..
I'm going to and I'm gonna kill my self Ive had enough of this shit life love you all but this is it good bye
They were written by my friend. He's unemployed and a smack head. You'll find him most days sitting in a pool of blood/sick/shit shouting at passers by. He's not worked for years...
It's the in thing right now to put the boot into folk like my mate. Poncing off the state, a waste of space oxygen thieving bastard right? That's one description I suppose but I prefer 'Veteran.'
I went to war with him once. We walked down Basra road together, murder mile. Body after body lay where they had died. The stench of blood, cordite, roasted meat and petrol stung my nose.
I saw my mate sitting down next to a mangled heap of twisted metal, flesh, bone and misery. He was smoking a cigarette and tapping his fingers on his helmet.
'You OK mate?' I asked, then wished I hadn't. How could any of us be OK in that shit hole.
He nodded at me. 'Yeah man, it's all just a bit... Well you know.' I nodded back, I was 19 years old and dead teenagers were all around me. My mate was 17 and we called him Junior.
Junior came home a little different, we all did. He then went to Bosnia and then he left the army. No longer part of the machine he turned to drugs to take away them dead kids on that piece of road that took a bite out of our souls.
I saw him a couple of months ago, he looks 60 years old now, he's 37. We stood in the line, carried rifles and saw things that hurt us inside. Tears have fallen, veins have filled with heroin and we still walk the road.
We live among society, some of us in jails, others in the gutter. What we need isn't pity, it's a hand. Junior has mine and last night was a cry for help. Others won't be heard.
I wrote some words once...
Veteran.
It isn't nice to have to beg the country you once served,
On bended knee with cap in hand a fate quite undeserved.
Once shiny boots now gather dust and medals hide away,
And dead men crawl through silent dreams when darkness steals the day.
Be the best the small screen cried enlist before the crown,
How many of the best are now locked up in iron towns.
The freedom they once fought to save is no longer theirs,
These broken troops a burden on societys affairs.
And what of those who gibber nightly screaming in their beds
As worms crawl through the the faces of the teenage freshly dead.
And dare not mention names of those who could not bear this strife,
Who with rope or blade or happy pills did away with life..
reposted in full with permission from Blood In The Sand
4 comments:
I so understand those feelings, but from a different perspective. The only difference is that I didn't succumb to drugs, but the feelings of despair I understand all too well.
Thanks for this Bendy.
This is the saddest thing I have ever read; I am in tears. I wish the newspapers would publish writing like this.
I really hope his mate is ok at the moment - if he ever can be....
Blood in the Sand is damned hard to read, but essential.
We as a society let them down.
Just as so many are let down.
I'm not trying to excuse the letting down. I don't why we don't care more as a society. I think Thatcher et al has a lot to answer for in the me generation.
Very powerful and well put across.
I understand how it can all go pearshaped all too well.
At one point my step son and I were serving in NI in the mid 70's although in different units.I won't say what, but something happened to him that eventually caused him to have a breakdown. He left the Army and decided he wanted to go abroad and applied to re-new his British Passport. He was born in the Military Hospital in Hong Kong to a serving soldier. He was told he was not eligable as his father was Irish! So a man who was born in a British Colony to a British Soldier, who had served on active duty as a British Soldier was not entitled to a British Passport which he had already held. He went downhill from there, moved to Eire and has never fully recovered. (But he did get an Irish Passport)
People, whether public or Officials, have difficulty understanding unless they've stood in the line.
Thank you Cal, your writings have already shown you are one of the precious ones who do understand.
P.S. Not doing too bad at the moment thanks hon. One of these days I'll arrange to have that cuppa!
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