Coming Home 1982.

RG is half way on the stairs clutching carrier bag containing vodka.

I had no idea what to expect when I left the plane. A mixture of alcohol and excitement made me, and many others, unsteady on our feet. We disembarked in order of rank, so I was one of the last to stagger down the stairway, to the stirring tunes of a military band and the waves and smiles of a small crowd of civvies, and a gaggle of press men. At the bottom of the stairs were several high ranking Officers. In my excitement, I nearly forgot to salute them and the drunken effort I did make wasn’t exactly Trooping of the Colour standard.
I was engulfed in a sea of emotion as families embraced, hugging and kissing in an unashamed display of love and relief.
But amongst all these people, including the men I’d just fought with, I felt totally alone. Nobody from my family had come to meet me. I wasn’t really all that bothered at the time; it’s only as I write this, nearly 25 years later, with both my Mam and dad dead and gone, that I feel sad that I was alone on that day.
Extract From Watching Men Burn.


RG is on the right of photo.

Suddenly, an arm appeared on my shoulder. It was the Lady Mayoress of Lincoln, offering to be my ‘mother’ for the day. It felt a bit odd, but I had my photo taken with her by the local newspaper and I would like to thank that lady, if she’s still alive. She was the ambassador of the entire British people for me with her simple, kind gesture.
Extract From Watching Men Burn.