Jason Fox (2018) Battle Scars

Heroes can be as boring as superheroes. There have been a slew of programmes with names like Who Dares Wins? Some recount the lost glory of figures that fought and never foundered during the early days of the second world war. Men a bit apart from the ordinary soldier.

That’s Jason (Foxy) Fox. Joined the marines at the impossibly young age of sixteen and soldering was his life. The army was always there for him. And he was a natural leader with the Royal Marine Commando and Special Boat Service. Part of the Brotherhood of those who fought and died in war and military actions in Afghanistan and Iraq. Bombs and bullets were Foxy's domain. His job was to kill people. The bad guys.  

Coming home was never easy. The pace of civilian life and who was screwing who and where the car was parked and what kind of car you had didn’t seem to matter that much. Family was fine. But the chaos of war was addictive. It gave life (and death) meaning. His Brotherhood understood that. Be prepared or prepare to fail.

No room for weakness or misgivings.

Foxy remembers his last mission. Natural fear he was going to die got trapped inside him. That he’d be paralysed from the neck down like his mate Dave. Better off dead. That’s what Dave said before. Yet Dave was upbeat when he visited him after the mission. But Foxy couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t face his fears. He couldn’t tell anyone.

Taking the piss was part of the Brotherhood’s way of dealing with things. Any weakness could jeopardise a soldier's life and that of their mates. It needed to be stamped out. It needed to be dealt with.

The body keeps the score. Foxy was reliving those battles in his head and body. Remembering not only the bad guys he killed but also, and in particular, the women and children behind the men with guns or no guns. Collateral damage.

His initial reaction was to downplay the fear. He couldn’t leave the only life he knew. He couldn’t leave the Brotherhood. Neither could he stay. His weakness would endanger their lives.

He hoped medics on the base could sort it—a quick fix—without anybody much noticing. He’s become sloppy with his responsibilities and duties on base.

Most readers will know where this goes from here. Loss of purpose. A suicidal spiral. A visit to a cliff-face he couldn’t even throw himself off. He was a failure at that as well.  

Then an opening up. An admission that he could not continue in the army or in the corporate world of paper gains that made no sense to him. The recreation of a new identity fused with the old self and new purpose. All’s well that ends well. For many or most, it doesn’t. But that’s a different story. Read on.

"You don't need to have been shot at to find yourself struggling. No one needs to suffer alone, and finding the right help for you is essential."