Coming Home
I walked into the bar, there were three people standing at the counter and a barman.
The patrons were in blazers and slacks each with a patch on their breast pockets telling their past to anyone in the know, RAF, Navy, particular army regiments. They looked at me with disdain, I was in a mishmash of military combat fatigues, scuffed boots, dark brown stains on my trousers, unkempt hair and bristles; more beard than shadow. I could see the judgement in their eyes, if I were military, how could I dare allow myself to enter this establishment in this state, so disrespectful. If I wasn’t military, I was obviously a Walter Mitty type, a wannabe soldier who never served anything other than myself. Whatever they thought I was, it wasn’t worth much.
I had my own patch though, on my arm, a patch that I was proud of, prouder than I could ever be for a merely national military. The patch was a red, three-pointed geometric star, it was a star many wore before me and many since in war zones were the oppressed rise up to defend themselves against fascist brutality.
I approached the bar, it had a modern look to it, varnished beach and the ubiquitous brass bar at its base. Three shiny shoes rested on it as their owners leaned on the two feet wide beach top. I asked for a pint of bitter, I pulled out from my pocket the few coins I had to my name, looking at the barman for the price, ready to count out the payment. Instead of picking up a glass, he looked me up and down and said, “This is a private club, and you are not dressed properly, I’m not serving you”. I was about to open my mouth to plead my case when I felt a presence at my shoulder, it wasn’t one of the men at the bar it was someone I hadn’t noticed before, he was dressed the same way the others were, but there wasn’t disdain in his eyes, more concern. “He’s my guest George, give him the pint”, as I was beginning to count coins onto the bar my friend said, “my treat comrade”, before putting a five-pound note on the bar. “Gentlemen”, he turned to the men at the bar, “can’t you see he has just come back from the war?”, the judgmental men turned back to their own little group. My friend and I stood in silence, waiting for the barman to pull the pint which I picked up, and drank half in one long pull. My friend said “ come and join us” indicating a small group in the corner, two men and a woman, each dressed to the code of the club.
On our way across, my friend introduced himself without offering a hand to shake, “I’m Michael”, “Gary” I replied. He went back to his seat, one of his friends drew up a seat for me, “thanks” I proffered, sitting down and putting my glass on the table. Michael introduced Andy, Anna, and Iain. Iain started, “We saw the patch on your arm, just back from Bosnia?” “yes”, I said, “just arrived this morning”, Anna asked “do you have anything? anywhere to go?” tears began to well up in my eyes, “no, I have nothing, I don’t know where I am to sleep tonight”, “it's ok,” said Anna as she put a comforting hand on my knee, “we have all been there, we’ll see you right”. “finish your pint and I’ll get you another one,” Ian said as he got up to go to the bar “Worthies?” I gave a low nod. Michael listed the different DPM fabrics he recognised on my attire, “American, Brit, Russian, French”. There was even blood on my trousers from where I had held a dying comrade yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t want to discuss it with anyone, even to people who had “been there”.
“Ok, tell us your story,” said Michael when Ian returned with a brown pint with a creamy head. “Honestly, I can’t”, Michael nodded gently “no problem, we’ll tell you ours”.
“Iain, Anna and I served in the UK forces, Anna was a brown job, Iain a crab and I was Navy, each of us idealists, we joined to do good in the world, but instead found boredom, we lost faith in serving a nation, with the injustice happening around the world. Iain went looking, Anna and I were approached, we all ended up in the same unit, having left the British forces. We ended up in Yugoslavia. Like you, we did our best and would have done it again, but we just couldn’t do it any more, one of us physically, all of us mentally, and we returned home a year ago.”, Anna carried on, “we were in the same state as you, but my Dad, an old socialist, welcomed us all to his home. We were sleeping on the floor in his tiny, terraced house, but it was shelter, and it was safe, better than we were used to. From there we were able to get back on our feet. Get jobs and eventually strike out on our own. We all stayed in touch and meet here once a week to check up on each other.” She continued, “You can sleep at mine for the time being and we will work to get you back on your feet, get some grants, have you ever been in the British forces?” “yes” I replied “RAF,” I said pronouncing the three letters as a word. “ah, a fellow crab, nice one Gary” pitched in Iain.
I was feeling a bit better, amongst friends and my immediate future a little less hostile. I started to share my story.
“My grandad was an old communist from Yorkshire, he had volunteered to fight in the International Brigades in the Spanish Civil war and had kept me enraptured with stories of how he and his comrades fought the fascists long before the world woke up to the brutality of the ideology. My father was a shipbuilder from Belfast, he couldn’t have been more different, a staunch unionist and conservative by nature. Despite his political leanings, he was sent to East Germany in the 70s to take western shipbuilding advances to the struggling East German shipyards. He brought his family with him, I was put into an East German primary school where I learned German and Russian, I learned how capitalism was evil and was causing suffering around the world, even in my dad’s native country with the continued oppression of the native Irish by the imperialist English.
After a year we came back, but I had learned things that I would never forget, Russian, and that communism wasn’t as bad as everyone told me. I wouldn’t say it was a communist, but I learned that there were two sides to every story.
When I was 18 I had grown tall and skinny, with a yearning for adventure, spurred on by grandad’s stories. I decided to join the RAF, with my Russian, they snapped me up. I trained to become a radio operator, my job was to sit in the back of a helicopter flying up and down the Inner German Border listening to broadcasts, highlighting anything that might be of interest. We were a tight-knit crew, our crew room reflected our job, it was an emersion of Russian and East German culture and propaganda, we even flew around in Soviet flying kit, all the better to get into the enemy’s heads. I loved it. But time passes and inevitably I would get posted, I ended up in Northern Ireland working in the Joint Reconnaissance centre at Aldergrove, as an intelligence analyst, a glorified secretary, the officers got all the interesting work. I decided to leave.
I got a job as ground crew for a helicopter transport company, they had a contract to fly cargo from ships in the Adriatic Sea into the rapidly fracturing Republic of Yugoslavia. I was based in Sarajevo and as helicopters came in I loaded and unloaded cargo.
The situation was getting worse, Bosnia had voted to secede from the Serbian dominated former Yugoslavia, Serbia didn’t like that, the result was an eruption of violence and war. I had seen terrible things. Finally, my company decided the situation was just too dangerous and we received instruction to get on the helicopter we were loading for extraction; but I couldn’t, I couldn’t stand by while atrocities being committed, mass rapes, the murder of whole villages, the UN standing by powerless to intercede. I wasn’t the only one to stay, a few of us went to find a way to help.
As with any servicemen, our first stop was a local bar, we trooped in and ordered beers, there was a ragtag group of soldiers in the corner wearing Bosnian army insignia, but they also had a patch that I recognised, the red three-pointed star of the International Brigade. I had found my grandad’s army, alive and kicking in the modern, uncivilised world. We ordered a round of beers and brought them to the soldiers, offering them as a gift and introducing ourselves. From them we found out how to join their unit, it was easy, find a uniform, find a rifle and report to the HQ. We were welcomed, especially having had prior military training. There were many different nationalities, Poles, Americans, Irish, quite a few English; they were all socialists. The orders were given in Spanish. Between periods of action, we attended lectures about socialism and the Brigade’s history, in the evenings, beer in hand, we sang songs of the International Brigades, I can still sing the rousing No Pasaran! But it was hard, we were in a small army, we fought hard against a modern ruthless army, hellbent not just on defeating us but completely eliminating any resistance then, and in the future, I am a committed atheist and don’t believe in evil, but they were the closest I’d ever seen. They were the fascists of old, raping and murdering as policy, whole towns lost their male populations. The United Nations couldn’t do anything but stand by and watch, many blamed them, but I felt sorry for them, soldiers are people of action so having to stand by and watch must have been harrowing for them, at least we were free to actually do something. We shielded towns, we fought hard, strike the aggressors, eject them from the town, shoot down their aircraft, mortar their artillery.
I left the war behind me when NATO finally got involved, I had seen all the guys I joined with killed, I had risen to command a unit, I saw mass graves, I had been blown up, my insides are like scrambled eggs. I did things I am not proud of; I feel guilty all the time, and I have nightmares. I just couldn’t take anymore, so after my last battle, I hopped on a helicopter left my rifle with a friend and got on a departing aircraft leaving Bosnia behind for England, made my way to the closest familiar town, a previous RAF posting, High Wycombe. Serving in the International Brigade is thankless, there are no pensions, no resettlement, just the comradeship of being in an ideological army, perpetually fighting the good fight. I had nothing, I hadn’t served in the RAF long enough to receive an immediate pension, I knew there were charities and stuff, but I didn’t know where to start, so I went to the first place that I found that might be able to help, the British Legion.
A quarter of a century later I am in a good job, I managed to go to university getting a good degree. I have worked in Africa and the UK, I am married with two kids, a boy and a girl. My wife is a doctor, Russian ex-army. I still meet up with Anna, Iain and Michael and we go to International Brigade reunions, swapping stories with the old soldiers from Spain and the young ones who fought against ISIS and Syrian thugs in Kurdistan.
I still have nightmares, I still remember, and I drink…
This, in essence, is a true story told to me by the person who walked into the bar that day. I have changed names and some details for anonymity, but the main elements, as far as I can research, are true.
