We cannot let them be lost in the numbers

Sergeant Craig Brelsford

A few days ago, a collection of people gathered for yet another ceremony at a landing strip in a remote and desolate country far far from home. They were there to witness the final journey of two more of their own.

Sometimes, when those rude boxes crossed the tarmac, it is a faceless name. Still one of their own but unknown. Sometimes they are familiar. Sometimes they are much loved. No matter who they were, every single one's departure home is witnessed and mourned. Regardless of colour or country or creed.

Four days ago, the British Ministry of Defence announced the death of Sergeant Craig Brelsford and Private Johan Botha, both from The 2nd Battalion, The Mercian Regiment (Worcesters and Foresters). The OC of their company, Major Jamie Nowell, said "Sergeant Brelsford was killed in action attacking a well defended Taliban position in an attempt to protect and evacuate his wounded comrades. He repeatedly fought through tenacious enemy fire to extract casualties and was hit on his final attack to find Private Botha, also killed in action, who had fallen behind enemy lines - this exceptionally courageous act of bravery and selfless commitment personified the character of Sergeant Brelsford." It is very likely that posthumous awards for bravery will be made to Sgt Brelsford. He went home accompanied by the one man whose safety his life couldn't buy.

Craig Brelsford will not see his 26th birthday this Sunday. Pte Botha will never hold his wife or baby girl again. A folded flag and a shiny medal will not replace what these families have lost.

Six years ago, is a frenzy of post-911 flag-waving patriotic fervour, our political leaders, with our whole-hearted backing, decided to send our military forces out in a "war on terror". Full of totally unrealistic expectations, and the righteousness of our cause, we sent our young men and women away in a chorus of approval.

Then it all went to shit. The nice quick victory we all assumed would be rightfully ours, failed to occur. The WMDs we were promised were never found. Resistance to our "liberation" was vigorous and persistent. Some of the people in the invaded countries had the nerve to no be appreciative. That damned Bin Laden remained elusive (and cocky).

And the number of body bags started to climb.

So, we changed our mind. We conveniently forgot that it was what we had wanted. People started to add up the human cost and, one by one, they decided the cost was too high. The press searched out (and, of course, found) the not so pleasant side of our military personnel. Bleeding children and naked prisoners began to replace the smiling graduation photos as the image of the war. Widows and mourning mothers got vocal in their grief, often blatantly in contrast to their lost loved-ones convictions. The protests got louder and stronger and more political. Suddenly, it is the right attitude, the election winning attitude for every politician. The war we had all wanted to have was the war we all wanted to forget.

Our men and women that are fighting and bleeding and dying in the Middle East are not just numbers. They have names and faces and families. They have dreams and hopes and fears. They are doing the job we asked them to do, the job that we insisted needed doing. Yet these representatives of our ambitions and ideals have been relegated to back page statistics, faceless numbers in a political cat-fight. Ammunition in the war against the war.

A few days ago, a collection of people gathered for yet another ceremony at a landing strip in a remote and desolate country far far from home. They were there to witness the final journey of two more of their own.

One was a newbie, familiar to few. One was a favourite, much loved, a hero.

Koreans and Germans and Dutch gathered to see them off. Brits and French and Australians saluted their passing. Canadians and Italians and Americans guarded their path. Soldiers from nations all over the globe paid their respects.

A few days ago, a collection of people gathered for yet another ceremony at a landing strip in a remote and desolate country far far from home. They were there to witness the final journey of two more of their own.

And soldiers of 37 nations wept.

Private Johan Botha (and wife)

images from UKMOD