For those who descend from the sky, and for those who made the final ascent

My childhood was going along at a normal pace up until the same urge hit me as had hit countless other men. That unrelenting urge to chase adventure and adrenaline, to trade the relative comfort of my mother’s home for the unfamiliar discomfort that comes with the nomadic lifestyle of a soldier. It was there, at the fringe of society, that I made my bed. And it was here where I was raised and trained by young men not much older than myself.

I was to be treated like a little brother; tormented and mentored. Their role was to show me the standard of behaviour expected within the pack and for the pack. Then they went and raised the bar. And like Butch to Spike, I followed. And together we went farther and faster; with more speed and violence than should be harnessed by young men being led by even younger men, who were in turn being supervised by men too young yet to have graduated to their second divorce. They were just other wayward young men who too had found comfort amid disorder and chaos, in a house void of maternal influence and care.

I have learned early on to believe in tangibles. Physics. Gravity. Gods hold no power. However I do believe in superheroes. Them, I have seen. They didn’t fly, however they made falling from the sky look badass as hell. They were lovers and fighters and they held unofficial records for both. They could devour barrels of whiskey, kegs of beer and bar full of pole dancers while still making it to reveille at 0600hrs where a 16 kilometre ruck march waited with its attending 55 lb burden. They were genetic marvels. The Reich’s doctors would have been dumbfounded. Your gods (and their wives) would be envious.

They were my heroes. They accepted me into their fold, into their family. I was on their team. I was now running with the pack. I was eating at the adult table. It was like Lord of the Flies, only it was nothing like it. We were living a Neverland existence in the real world, in real time, with guns and face paint. And helicopters and planes and para-fucking-chutes! We were a tribe of paratroopers. We were airborne! It was fucking awesome. These men were warriors. They taught me their trade secrets. They epitomized the term quiet professional.

These men had witnessed the worst our planet had yet to commit. They had held the line for humanity when the rest of the world quit. What they bore witness to would make anyone who believed in God hate Him. They had done the hardest of jobs in the hardest of places. Deployments to the Balkans and east Africa had shaped their lives like Afghanistan had yet to shape mine. They were tender men who had grown hard tough and had grown calluses to protect their hands and their hearts.

These men taught me how to soldier and how to lead. The wisdom they imparted came at a cost any of us had yet to comprehend, let alone pay. They could not teach me how to hurt or how to heal. They themselves had yet to acknowledge their own wounds never mind the healing process they had still to endure. No one could have foreseen the consequences of a youth spent in conflict as they play out on old men who were once soldiers, and those who knew were protecting that knowledge.

These are my thoughts tonight, from my mat, from inside the yoga studio my sangha calls home. This is my new tribe. It is here with them, that I learn how to be a warrior without a weapon. This is where I try to reconnect with the parts of me I turned off in order to be able to do what I did. This is where I learn, now, to appreciate the space between moments, where the silence doesn’t have to be loud. This is where I learn to appreciate the power and beauty in the now. This is where I learn to live with who I was so I can be comfortable with who I am until I can be who I want to be. But in this breath, at this moment, on this mat, I am grateful for the pipehitters out there who are capable of delivering violence on our behalf.

Their legends will live on with every “ten-man-tent-story’ being re-told this winter during indoc training, by men who were once boys being told these same stories by other men who were once boys being told stories by men who were… well, you get it. No doubt that some of my heroes sitting in a pub confessional with an un-ordained bartender securing redemption and salvation for themselves through the telling of their own tales and the showing of their scars. And perhaps amid their braggadocio they will allow a brief glimpse into the souls that defined them as men.

When they can no longer tell their stories, I will. At least until your gods acknowledge the achievements of the men I proudly call Brothers.