“Sleep is a luxury.
Complaining is a privilege.
We’ve been issued neither.”
I hear it still—
clear as a parade-ground shout,
though the years have softened everything else.
Back then,
I was a lad with more nerve than knowing,
fresh from school,
from home-cooked meals and careless time,
thrown into a world
that didn’t bend for anyone.
I remember the cold most—
how it got into your bones
and stayed there.
The weight of kit,
the sting of pride,
the ache that never quite left.
I remember missing home—
quietly,
because you didn’t say those things out loud.
You carried it
like you carried everything else.
But I also remember the laughter.
God, the laughter.
How it found us
in the worst of it—
mud-soaked, sleep-starved,
backs breaking and boots failing—
and still, someone would crack a line
that had us grinning like fools.
We were boys pretending not to be,
becoming men without noticing when it happened.
The friendships—
they weren’t made gently.
They were forged
in shared hardship,
in knowing looks,
in the understanding
that no one else quite knew this life
the way we did.
We didn’t speak of it then—
not properly.
Too busy getting through,
too stubborn to admit
what it meant.
But I see it now,
clearer than I ever did.
Those days—
the pain, the sorrow, the joy—
they built something lasting.
Not just in me,
but between us.
Men I haven’t seen in decades
still feel close as brothers.
Time never quite broke that bond.
Now I’m older—
hands not as steady,
steps not as quick—
but my mind drifts back there often.
To the square.
To the field.
To the sound of boots in unison
and laughter in defiance.
Sleep is no longer a luxury.
Complaining comes easier with age.
But if I could—
I’d shoulder the weight again,
just to stand among them once more,
young, untested,
and utterly alive.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 2:10 AM UTC
“Sleep is a luxury.
Complaining is a privilege.
We’ve been issued neither.”
I hear it still—
clear as a parade-ground shout,
though the years have softened everything else.
Back then,
I was a lad with more nerve than knowing,
fresh from school,
from home-cooked meals and careless time,
thrown into a world
that didn’t bend for anyone.
I remember the cold most—
how it got into your bones
and stayed there.
The weight of kit,
the sting of pride,
the ache that never quite left.
I remember missing home—
quietly,
because you didn’t say those things out loud.
You carried it
like you carried everything else.
But I also remember the laughter.
God, the laughter.
How it found us
in the worst of it—
mud-soaked, sleep-starved,
backs breaking and boots failing—
and still, someone would crack a line
that had us grinning like fools.
We were boys pretending not to be,
becoming men without noticing when it happened.
The friendships—
they weren’t made gently.
They were forged
in shared hardship,
in knowing looks,
in the understanding
that no one else quite knew this life
the way we did.
We didn’t speak of it then—
not properly.
Too busy getting through,
too stubborn to admit
what it meant.
But I see it now,
clearer than I ever did.
Those days—
the pain, the sorrow, the joy—
they built something lasting.
Not just in me,
but between us.
Men I haven’t seen in decades
still feel close as brothers.
Time never quite broke that bond.
Now I’m older—
hands not as steady,
steps not as quick—
but my mind drifts back there often.
To the square.
To the field.
To the sound of boots in unison
and laughter in defiance.
Sleep is no longer a luxury.
Complaining comes easier with age.
But if I could—
I’d shoulder the weight again,
just to stand among them once more,
young, untested,
and utterly alive.
In 1970, we arrived as strangers—young, untested, and far from home for the first time. Boys from different corners of Britain, thrown together by chance and command. What began in uncertainty and hardship became something far greater: shared struggle, enduring laughter, and bonds that would carry a lifetime.
Request permission to use this poem