Alan Coleman

As the tabloids scream with excitement, “Our boys launch submarine missile attack on Gaddafi”, an important question has to asked. Where is this latest spark of genius going?

We could do what we did in Iraq the first time around in the early nineties. Make a lot of noise with tanks and planes then leave without getting our hands dirty or really achieving anything at all. Or we could do what we did in Iraq the second time around.  Justify a cripplingly expensive military campaign with lies and deceit  in order to satisfy the religious egomania of pious men (and Jesus).

In both cases it’ll be innocent families picking up the tab, both here and abroad. There, it’ll be relatives blown to pieces and ignored as collateral damage. Here it’ll be young men who could have done something with their lives being hyped up as “The bravest of the brave”, by politicians whose own offspring will be tucked away safely at a select school.

Hollywood couldn’t think up a name for the latest campaign, and I doubt even Guy Richie could either.  It’s called Operation Odyssey Dawn.

You couldn’t write it any better.

Perfect for the glorified tabloid cartoon layout of  “Our boys” in action. The perfect fit for the suited man making the chopping action outside number ten. The perfect soundbite to accompany “It is legal and it is right”, just because a public schoolchild tells the foolish poor that it is so.

Yet another military endeavour, another opportunity for men to sprout soundbites on BBC News, to go to church on Sunday and pick up accolades.

Yet another opportunity for waste.

A few years ago I wrote about The sanitisation of war, how our media have come to depict warfare in general as not only just, but as a simple story of good against evil in the manner of a Commando comic.

On page 47 of today’s free Sport magazine, the Royal Air Force have taken out a full page Commando comic style advertisement for staff. It’s taken us a while to get to the point where this is an acceptable depiction of something quite terrifying, but I think we’ve been prepared gently and can now relax, safe in the knowledge that war is not only fun reading, but is also something to aspire to.

The advert features the handsome Flight Lieutenant Sean Langrish, an epitome of the well rounded young man, complete with steely determination and well rehearsed student sneer. (In another advert he’ll be seen relaxing over a few beers with an orange juice swigging colleague, however everyone knows that not drinking in the forces is paramount to homosexuality).

The story is as follows. The lads on the ground in Helmand are cornered, brave Sean calls in some Laser Guided Bombs, he keeps his promise, the enemy is eliminated and he’s got 24 new bezzie mates. No really, that’s what happens! Then we’re ‘all good’! Fucking superb! If only I wasn’t so old!

There’s money to waste on misleading adverts though isn’t there? We know that because there’s cash to be spunked on teaching the country’s two most over privileged brothers to indulge in learning to be Search and Rescue pilots. The Palace must be getting wet thinking about that little number when it comes to fruition. All the tabloid glory, none of the risk, everyone’s a winner! Essentially, it’s this week’s hobby, a well deserved break from playing football with six year old African children with no legs, or from getting cunted in China Whites.

This is nothing new though, The RAF, like the military in general, has a history of outrageously misleading adverts bent on showing that in War, there’s something for everyone. Remember the ridiculous Cinema adverts of a few years ago that suggested that young people could progress from delivering pizzas on a moped to piloting a Harrier? Yes, that’s going to happen isn’t it?

No need to worry too much about it though, when the reality of the cartoon like battle against evil ends up with no arms to have a wank with, there’s always Help for Heroes.

Royal Air Force. Be part of the story.

When I was younger I used to read small colorful comic books about war called, Commando. You can buy them concatenated as huge volumes in bigger bookshops. Gripping and predictable stories from all wars about fighting and destruction. I couldn’t get enough of it, the struggle between good and evil laid bare by Tommies with stubble pitted against skinny and monocled Jerry officers with leather gloves. Great stuff, honestly. Like with most things in life though I eventually grew out of it, I can’t remember when or why in particular but for some reason one day I was into reading Dick Francis.

I grew up, but as I look around me the real stories of our current wars still seem to take on the same Commando comic theme. Huge tabloid lettering laid onto pictures of ‘OUR BOYS’ in action. Enemy kill counts and detailed tales of bravery and valour, all complimented with big regimental cap badges and motto’s.

The very same simplicity that attracted me to stories of war in the first place is being used in the next generation to flog copy of tabloid rubbish to the masses. It’s an effective and fairly cynical tactic, although not new if one remembers the shameful coverage of the Falklands Conflict.

What bothers me most about this kind of sanitisation is the effect it’s had on how we’ve have come to view warfare. Not as a horrific and destructive waste of life and culture, but as a kind of triumphalist entertainment that leaves the reading itching for more excitement. Pictures of soldiers firing from the hip are great for paper sales, recruitment figures and flag waving, but behind the comic book stubble lies a terrifying pit of betrayal and damage for everyone involved.

We are simply kidding ourselves as adults in very much the same way that Commando Comic writers did as children. The idea that ‘OUR BOYS’ and ‘Harry the Homecoming Hero’ are somehow made of steel and will overcome evil with British grit and determination is ludicrous. Don’t get me wrong, I love the armed forces as much as the next bloke. But turning them into comic book heroes to hide the inconvenient reality of war will only exacerbate the disappointment of our eventual defeat. Worse still, it’ll make it easier for small religious men in suits to wage war with other peoples children.

I was reading a list of names yesterday, members of the armed forces who have died whilst serving in Afghanistan. Each one of them leaves behind a lengthy and complex network of friends, family and loved ones who will spend the rest of their lives thinking about them. With each death, the years of history, work, conversation and decency seems to be lost forever without any but the closest people remembering it. All those ideas and thoughts that people spend their lives shaping get chopped in half without ever being explained or answered.

The platitudes from the Commanding Officer and politicians are the official line of closure before moving on to other business. As such, I find it difficult to reconcile Sgt Dave Wilkinson’s life of memories, fun and hope, to five minutes work at Whitehall. Holidays on the beach, Match of The Day and warming his wife’s side of the bed whilst she’s brushing her teeth, all summed up neatly by graduate with a thesaurus.

Also, I find the idea of celebrity men in London suits conferring gratitude and respect on the dead a little difficult to stomach. It’s as if somehow an acknowledgement of heroism demonstrates a humble and thoughtful persona, freeing the salesmen of guilt and deferring the responsibility back to the client. The harder the Army work, the more heroes we’ll have on our hands, which in turn means less space on the front page for greed and incompetence. So many winners and they’re not stupid either.

In a political sense gallantry is too easy to deal with, so much easier to explain than selfishness and celebrity. And nobody answers back too, that’s the best bit.

I was thinking about Sgt Steve Roberts this morning, the soldier from the 2nd Royal Tank Regiment who died in Iraq because he didn’t have body armour to protect him.

What upsets me most about his death is the waste involved, his life was simply squandered due to a lack of resources. He didn’t die leading his men in battle or trying to save someone’s life, he died because a man in a suit somewhere decided that he didn’t want to afford Sgt Roberts’s regiment a basic level of personal protection.

And because money is spent on more important things, like a new sign for the Deputy Prime ministers Office for example, people like Sgt Roberts continue to perform unimaginably dangerous jobs without the support they deserve. And he did so not because he was ordered, but because that was the sort of bloke he was. More importantly, that’s the sort of people they are.

So not only has a life cut needlessly short, but a regiment is now short of one of its most important ranks, Sergeant. The people young soldiers and officers turn to for advice, safety and recognition. The bloke that looks after everyone and says simple things like, “Well done lads, get your heads down and meet me back here in two hours.”

We know that soldiers are made of different stuff, and more often than not perform way beyond the call of duty. But it is that precise quality that allows others to take advantage of them in the worst way possible. Consider here the Metropolitan Police. The idea of Jon Reid asking them to venture out onto the mean streets of St Johns Wood without body armour is unimaginable. It wouldn’t happen, and rightly so, but the army have always been an easy target for accountants and politicians. Whether its trying to shave off a few thousand from next years budget, or posing for tabloid photographs with real men, they’re an easy touch.

Over the last few days, in the run up to Christmas, I’ve also been thinking about his wife Samantha and what she’ll be doing whilst we’re all spending time with our nearest and dearest. What will go through her head when she wakes up and realises again, that her husband isn’t there to wish her a Merry Christmas.

And what of Tony Blair? Consider what will be going through his head as he gets ready for church, the good Christian that he is.