This isn't easy for me. For days I have pondered about even bothering, but I have made too many friends on *FUN* to just not sneak off and disappear. Then came the 'but how' thing, and, following more deep thinking, I have come up with this. It's the only way for me to be able to draw a parallel.
Up until thirty odd years ago, the drill was easy. We were on an operational plan called 'Spearhead', which meant being ready to deploy anywhere in the world, at the drop of a hat, or in our case, at the drop of a beret. My kit was always packed, and kept under the bed. If the call came at night, it was a bang on the door, which woke up everyone in our block of married quarter flats. Others being summoned had woken me up in times past, so I knew. Get dressed, fish out my bergan and small pack, a hug and a kiss for Alison, now fully awake, then a sneak into our sleeping kids room, for two more kisses. Then, without looking back, the front door closed, and I was being hoisted onto the back of the Bedford three-tonner, and off to collect weapons. The adrenaline drove away any tiredness, and within an hour, we were all gathered in N02 Hanger at Brize Norton, the buzzing arc lights screaming down from above. Then, with a roar of engines, we lifted off into the dawn sky.
Sometimes it was Northern Ireland, one time Malta, twice Sierra Leone, and others, well, just lets say that even now that stays with me.
And so now, once again, the deployment is nigh. But this time, there wont be kids running down the path, screaming 'Daddy, Daddy....' or my lovely wife throwing her arms around my neck, helping me inside with my kit. There will be no paper 'welcome home' banner over the front door. Nothing.
My kit is packed, I'm ready to deploy. But this time, it will be my body that makes that decision, not the government, nor the MOD. And before the Morphgesic stupifies my thoughts, or the Omeprazole stops me chucking up, nor the Dexamethasone spoils my good looks, or the Liquid Morpine Solutine half dribbles from my mouth, I want to take this opportunity to thank you all on *FUN*, for years of happiness, cheeky good times, stimulating posts, and a comradeship at rallies we have both enjoyed to the full. OK, I could have PMd you who know me, or emailed in the same way, or even have phoned, (not likely, as the cancer has now hit my voice box), but hey, you know me, I like a good story to finish the evening off.
I'm not going any further into this, except to say that I have fought like hell to stave the inevitable off. Already I have survived the 21 months maximum they gave me, and even the unheard of two years since diagnosis, but hey, I'm running out of ammunition now, and I was never much good with a bayonet. Time to lie back and rest, I think.
If I can, I will keep posting as long as possible, and I will certainly be reading all your story's and stuff. Ali sends her love to you all guys.
And thanks Jim, I never thought that anyone could, but you took my edge off me. Cheers peeps, keep on trucking.
Dave.
A Little Pair Of Wings.
God…WE WUZ ‘ARD!. Oh so I thought in far off days when I was young.
A group of six or so of us, with upright stance, and voice unsung,
With tailored pants, and putees brown, beret too small, and hair cut fine,
We owned the world, from village pub to hotel bar, our hallowed shrine.
From toiling up the Brecon slopes in filthy kit and foot deep snow,
To standing on a Hercy Bird, at the ramps end, our grit to show.
To all the world.
We were the cream, the very best, the ‘Crap Hats’ scourge, above the rest.
And when our time to fight did come, we gave them shit, no quarter hold,
Our friends our brothers, un-parting cord, the comradeship, forever bold.
For we were second to no man, and had respect for very few.
As animals we lived and fought, for there was nought we couldn’t do.
We stood together at graves end, a comrade lost, the angel sings.
For each man on his uniform, a little pair of wings.
Dave Parkinson 2007
Up until thirty odd years ago, the drill was easy. We were on an operational plan called 'Spearhead', which meant being ready to deploy anywhere in the world, at the drop of a hat, or in our case, at the drop of a beret. My kit was always packed, and kept under the bed. If the call came at night, it was a bang on the door, which woke up everyone in our block of married quarter flats. Others being summoned had woken me up in times past, so I knew. Get dressed, fish out my bergan and small pack, a hug and a kiss for Alison, now fully awake, then a sneak into our sleeping kids room, for two more kisses. Then, without looking back, the front door closed, and I was being hoisted onto the back of the Bedford three-tonner, and off to collect weapons. The adrenaline drove away any tiredness, and within an hour, we were all gathered in N02 Hanger at Brize Norton, the buzzing arc lights screaming down from above. Then, with a roar of engines, we lifted off into the dawn sky.
Sometimes it was Northern Ireland, one time Malta, twice Sierra Leone, and others, well, just lets say that even now that stays with me.
And so now, once again, the deployment is nigh. But this time, there wont be kids running down the path, screaming 'Daddy, Daddy....' or my lovely wife throwing her arms around my neck, helping me inside with my kit. There will be no paper 'welcome home' banner over the front door. Nothing.
My kit is packed, I'm ready to deploy. But this time, it will be my body that makes that decision, not the government, nor the MOD. And before the Morphgesic stupifies my thoughts, or the Omeprazole stops me chucking up, nor the Dexamethasone spoils my good looks, or the Liquid Morpine Solutine half dribbles from my mouth, I want to take this opportunity to thank you all on *FUN*, for years of happiness, cheeky good times, stimulating posts, and a comradeship at rallies we have both enjoyed to the full. OK, I could have PMd you who know me, or emailed in the same way, or even have phoned, (not likely, as the cancer has now hit my voice box), but hey, you know me, I like a good story to finish the evening off.
I'm not going any further into this, except to say that I have fought like hell to stave the inevitable off. Already I have survived the 21 months maximum they gave me, and even the unheard of two years since diagnosis, but hey, I'm running out of ammunition now, and I was never much good with a bayonet. Time to lie back and rest, I think.
If I can, I will keep posting as long as possible, and I will certainly be reading all your story's and stuff. Ali sends her love to you all guys.
And thanks Jim, I never thought that anyone could, but you took my edge off me. Cheers peeps, keep on trucking.
Dave.
A Little Pair Of Wings.
God…WE WUZ ‘ARD!. Oh so I thought in far off days when I was young.
A group of six or so of us, with upright stance, and voice unsung,
With tailored pants, and putees brown, beret too small, and hair cut fine,
We owned the world, from village pub to hotel bar, our hallowed shrine.
From toiling up the Brecon slopes in filthy kit and foot deep snow,
To standing on a Hercy Bird, at the ramps end, our grit to show.
To all the world.
We were the cream, the very best, the ‘Crap Hats’ scourge, above the rest.
And when our time to fight did come, we gave them shit, no quarter hold,
Our friends our brothers, un-parting cord, the comradeship, forever bold.
For we were second to no man, and had respect for very few.
As animals we lived and fought, for there was nought we couldn’t do.
We stood together at graves end, a comrade lost, the angel sings.
For each man on his uniform, a little pair of wings.
Dave Parkinson 2007