Stories

The Northern Ireland Medal

“A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon.” ~ Napoleon Bonaparte

In the US Army, soldiers earn medals for service, good conduct, achievement, and heroism. My first ribbon, the National Defense Ribbon, was for graduating from Basic Training, having achieved a month and two weeks of service.

Like most soldiers, American Soldiers wear badges, cords, and patches, attesting to their training, affiliations, and personal and unit history. When the army assigned me to the Paras, I wore twelve ribbons, the Combat Infantry Badge, the 82nd Airborne Combat patch, and Master Parachute Wings.

British soldiers are a different sort. Back in 1990, most British soldiers wore only one medal, the General Service medal with Northern Ireland clasp. Younger soldiers wore nothing. Someone with two medals was probably a combat veteran. There were the few who had been to the Falklands still serving, like Baz Bardsley, who won the Military Medal for his actions at Goose Green.

Kady and I hosted Baz and his wife at our place for dinner in Church Crookham before he was posted to my old battalion, replacing CSGT Johnson on the People Exchange Program. He served as Platoon Sergeant for Scouts 2-505, Infantry Platoon Sergeant, and, during the Gulf War, First Sergeant of Charlie 2-505. The United States Army awarded Baz our Bronze Star and Combat Infantry Badge. Baz died in 2014.

When I joined them in the winter of 1988, 1 Para had just returned from Northern Ireland. They were all wearing their Northern Ireland Medals and suffering the loss of one of their close friends, Sergeant Michael B. Matthews, who died in a bomb explosion. My first parade with them was at his memorial service in Aldershot.

These fantastic soldiers and paratroopers were very proud of their Northern Ireland Medals. The Parachute Regiment is a very exclusive fraternity.

I was a Yank with a chest full of medals, assigned to a close-knit group of guys in a very elite unit, who was not in NI with them and had not earned his way.

My ribbons became the focus of some not-so-good-natured ribbing, especially when the lager was flowing. The guys often approached me in the Mess, poked a medal, and demanded that I tell them why I was wearing it. Sometimes, they would make up reasons, like getting to work on time four days out of five, identifying an M-16 at fifty meters, or finding my way out of the woods.

I learned to wear only my top ribbons, the Bronze Star, The Meritorious Service Medal, the Armed Forces Expeditionary Medal (Grenada), my Combat Infantry Badge, and my Master Wings. I began wearing my British Wings on my right shoulder, my 505PIR Unit Crest on my right chest, and the Parachute Regiment insignia on my green tabs.

I tried to earn their respect by wearing what they wore, carrying what they carried, drinking what they drank, and learning from them.

At my Dining In, I passed the Regimental Sergeant Major's test of Drinking The Yard of Ale, a new tradition that he made up just for me, by downing three pints of Bitters without letting the yard-long glass or the beer move from my lips.

As I made friends, the chatter over my ribbons only increased, but now it was fun. I learned to give as good as I got, making up wild stories for my ribbons, like conducting a free-fall jump from the Moon or rappelling from the top of the Empire State Building.

When I was leaving, headed to my second assignment to Turkey, the battalion held a big party in the Warrant Officers and Sergeant's Mess called a Dining Out. There was much drinking and slapping on the back, a few rowdy speeches and antidotes about my time in the regiment. The lads, now my mates, were letting it all hang out. They told rousing stories and funny tales about my time In the Depot, 1 Para, and C Company. Rand mentioned my lack of basketball skills, Alan the sheep swatting story, Steve reminded me of my Bergan watching duties, Spike mentioned my head in the toilet after the yard-of-ale, and Blackie my fondness for cake.

Even the Regimental Sergeant Major tried to get in on the fun.

He called me forward. Before he presented me with my going away gift, he reminded us of something he had heard.

When The Colonel of the Regiment, Prince Charles, came to review the battalion, I was the Platoon Sergeant of 8 Platoon, C Company. I had to give commands to my platoon in a very public event. I had to do it flawlessly.

Through the Provo-Sergeant, the RSM suggested that I turn my platoon over to a British Soldier, like my First Corporal, Jerry Long.

I declined.

I sent the Provo back to the RSM to tell him that I was the Platoon Sergeant, I had this, and that I would happily be on Punishment if I screwed it up.

I had CPL Long practice me until I could do a respectable job, and then I put him close in the formation in case I forgot my commands. Practices and the event went without a problem. Later, the RSM complimented me on my Drill. I told him, RSM, I was moving my mouth; CPL Long was giving the Commands.

When he relayed this to the Mess, there was an immediate uproar of laughter. Most of the guys knew the truth, but I still believe that the RSM believed what I had told him.

He was on a roll. Next, as I hoped someone would, he asked, We know that you Yanks love medals - Will you be given a medal for being over here with us?

I had them! It was time to get back at them for two years, for this night, for every practical joke, and all the radio batteries and machine gun ammo secretly added to my Bergan.

I became VERY SERIOUS.

RSM. Mates. My country loves and respects the British Empire and needs the friendship our two countries share. My Army and the 82nd Airborne believe this job, this Exchange, to be one of the premier positions in the peace-time army. They know we have much to learn from the Paras. I have been lucky enough to have that job. I hope to pass your expertise to my future soldiers. Because of its importance, The Army will award me a second Overseas Service Medal and the Meritorious Service Medal.

Everyone was nodding and agreeing, sure of their self-worth and importance.

And, because I will be flying over Northern Ireland when I depart Heathrow, I will get the Northern Ireland Medal.

The Mess went deadly silent.

I stood there for as long as I dared, then said, Gotcha!