Iraq: Fact or Fiction?

I was watching a programme on the television earlier today called Mark Of Cain. It focuses on the cases of abuse against Iraqi prisoners of war at the hands of the British troops in Basra.

Now, in all honesty, I'm neither for nor against this little bit of Barney out in the Middle East. On one hand, an evil tyrannical dictator has been deposed from control of what could be a great nation. But if you turn a blind eye to his atrocious human rights record(its as long as your arm, or his neck, these days) but he actually created a relatively prosperous country.

If my memory serves me well, something I don't expect, I read somewhere that he built hospitals, schools, libraries and other public buildings. The Iraqi state paid for Iraqi students to get free education until they finished University, even if it meant being taught abroad. If I remember correctly, a few of his higher army officers were trained at the British army's own officer training college at Sandhurst.

My Grandad was a soldier, he served in Borneo and other such places. My Great-Grandad served in the Kings Own Scottish Borderers(now amalgamated into the Scottish Infantry Regiment). He fought in the Second World War and aided the mass withdrawal of troops at Dunkirk. He was on an attachment to a Canadian regiment in Cherbourg. They distracted a large portion of German fire power which allowed the Allies a bit of space(admittedly not much) to get as many troops off the beaches as possible.

He never spoke much about his time in the army. I think it bothered him too much. Any mention of the war and he'd get glassy eyes and he'd go for a pee. Certain times of the year made him need to visit the toilet a lot too. Christmases, some days, VE Day, that sort of stuff.

I wish I knew more of where he went, and who he was with during his time in the army, but I lived 400 miles away from for much of my life up until his death. I don't even know what rank he was when he retired.

I don't remember a great deal about the man, he died 5 years ago, but what I do remember, those memories I cherish.

We'd walk the dogs and have that basic old person-young person chat of how school is, etc... I told him once we were studying Dunkirk in History GCSE and I actually saw him cry, because there wasn't a handy toilet. We never spoke about school again.

Instead, he taught me some of your bog standard skills for the army.

He bought me my first Swiss army knife, which sits unused in front of me. I had someone buy me a cheaper one so I didn't break the expensive one. He bought me an air rifle, and that's how I learned to shoot(I always win at the target shooting stalls) which helped me to bond with my mothers Dad. Pheasant shooting with him.

I remember being at his funeral. My Papa was never a tall man, we all knew it. But when we saw his coffin laid out in the funeral parlour, it was tiny. I've never seen so many grown men cry outside of loosing a cup final in all my life. All 5 feet of him just lying there. How could someone so small affect so many people.

On the road up to Edinburgh for the cremation, I felt empty. Like I'd lost something. Obviously, I'd lost someone, but I'd lost a connection with that person too. Who else was I going to spend my summers learning base survival skills? My dad could never do it, he was never in the army, and my Grandad is just an angry man with a shiny head, who still never gives me the time of day, even at 19.

For years and years, he was the reason why I wanted to join the infantry. Then as I got older, I wanted to be an army mechanic, then a driver and finally a cook.

I realised I'd never get in though, I'm a bit of a lard-arse.




James Scott. KOSB.