Home again, Home again, Jiggedy Jig!

So...

...its five hours since I wrote the 'so'. I'm actually writing about the writing as opposed to writing 'from within' as I've been ordered to. No. Order is too strong. Requested? Well, put it this way, if I don't get my head straight then I can't get back to my unit and if that happens...

I don't want to think about that.

No. I'm not going to think about that.

SO I'm going to consider their request an 'order' because I respond better to orders. You know where you are with an order. Its solid. Stable. Unequivocal. What are you gonna do? Its an order. You follow it. Regardless of what it is. It takes off any sense of load that you have. With an order, you're free. The Nazi's, for example, were 'only following orders'. That's right. Because they had orders they could murder and slaughter to their little hearts content knowing that their 'orders' negated their responsibility to those whom they slaughtered and murdered. I bet that made them feel better. Don't worry, mate. I know you're only doing your job. POW!

Ooh now there's a word. We don't use it much in the The Forces. Responsibility. Enough to make us Grunts tremble in our size twelves. We substitute it with 'Duty'. Not 'Responsibility'. We have a 'Duty' to carry out our 'orders'.

And because I was 'Duty' bound to carry out my 'Orders' I'm now back in Blighty, looking like a damn mummy with bandages and splints and stitches.

And up to three weeks ago, I have zero rememberance of how I got here.

I remember a truck and the moon and then a warm duvet.

The duvet!

So warm and comfortable it damn near made me cry. And a bed, it was. I remember stretching and the duvet was cool but I could feel it warming up as I stretched and the bed was crisp and cold and white and new and I remember thinking that I'd never lain on anything so comfortable as this bed (except maybe Tommy Harris) and never had anything so warming on top of me than this heavy duvet (except Raoul Bartock).

And I knew I was injured but also that these things were being seen to. They hurt, but not screaming pain. Not that screaming pain like earlier. This was an achey lets-stretch-and-see kind of a pain. Ouch - ouch - aaah. A pain that was subsiding. A healing pain.

Then I'm awake in the Med Centre and a nurse is asking if I take sugar and hands me a tea which I drink.

I drink coffee. Black, no sugar. I hate tea.

Three weeks later and I'm home. Well, off Base at least and on Civvy street for the foreseeable future.

Bollocks is it! I'm off down the gym and getting my head straight. I'm nursing my injuries both physical and mental and I'll be using this blog to do that. Understand that this is only a means to an end. I'm only doing this because I need to get back to my boys in the Unit.

My name is Harriet Bandura, Captain, 1st Battalion, The Rifles, serial number 12121974.

I'm following my orders.