The Unforgotten Soldier.

It is not out of choice that I come to write my most personal blog entry tonight. After a month of mixed rollercoasting emotions and the convergence of both my life back home and my life in Winchester, I wanted to write something uplifting; I really did.

On the eve of Remembrance Sunday a trooper died in Afghanistan. Deciding to stay behind when his unit had returned home; the 4th Rifles, he chose to remain and help his replacements in the 3rd Rifles settle into their new environment. Joining the army this year, the soldier had been trained and then flown out for immediate action in Helmand. You may be questioning why I've opted not to name the soldier in question, thus far. Well, at this point, he could be anyone. He could be any one of the hundreds of new recruits who enter the fight against the Taliban and insurgent forces this month, this year, this decade even. However much I would love to continue to shroud his identity in order to use the effect of his death as a general morality tale; his name is one of incredible importance to me.

Phillip Allen, of the 4th Rifles, was not always a soldier. Two years ago he performed around my local area with his own backing band - a time at which my band was also gigging the area. Amidst all of the backstage antics and excesses of rock and roll we had met before at a local battle of the bands in my local town of Verwood, Dorset. Unfortunately, the only immediate detail that I can recognise is how Phil looked at the time, and certainly his music, which was revived within my musical memory as soon as I viewed his MySpace profile again. But what made such a talented and unique musician put down his guitar and pick up a gun? Most of us would question why anyone would want to pass over into something so extreme though I think, in an odd way, I understand.

I was a young schoolboy of fifteen when I applied to join the Territorial Army. For years, I dreamed of defending my country from evil and harm - defending those of I considered decent and honest, from those whom I considered to be challenging, destroying and invading our way of life. Fifteen is a wonderful age to be, as I look upon it now, four years later. Things were probably much more monochrome and one thing or the other then than they are now. Yes or no, no maybes - no philosophical debate, and no moral complexities; I wanted to defend those who I saw as the people that made life work. I made an oath with a close friend that we would join up should our island ever be directly threatened. I'm still held to my promise; the only thing that holds me back is the phrasing of my oath. Directly threatened? Thus far, I don't believe we are, but sometimes I think I've cheated and have broken my own oath, which would be unforgiveable. On other, happier days when it comes to me, and I think about it, I still hold true to the oath I made three Summers ago.

I suppose what affects me the most; and what chokes me about Phil is that he could have been me, and I could have been him. To this day, I still hold my guitar, and I use it to make and create, to form and discover. Phil would know what I mean. In the end, it was he that ended up holding a gun, and I holding my guitar. But what ironic twist of fate would have us end up this way? Should I be out there with the others fighting? Sometimes I think I should, and that I decided not to take one particular path and ended up on another because of that. Other times, I think that I was not meant to be fighting. That I can do the same damage with a pen or a camera as a gun.

But now, and forever more, I will remember that I could have been different; and so could Phil. He died doing something he loved, quoted as being a 'brother in arms', he almost certainly gave his life in the fight for others. Every remembrance Sunday (the day he died) I will be remembering thousands of lives lost in countless wars, faces I cannot name or identify. Alongside that, I will always remember the face of Phillip Allen; and not as a soldier, but as a musician. In fact, I already know and realise, that I will recognise Phil as myself. As a boy with dreams. Phil was due to be married too. As he sat in the airport terminal at Brize Norton, he proposed to the love of his life, Karina. With a wedding planned for December, this wasn't an Engagement of convention, but rather a real declaration of love. Some say he'd found his soul mate in Karina - I hope that this was true, and that some of his last thoughts were of love and beauty, not of death and despair. I wish, with all my heart that he was almost in Heaven already - being engaged to the woman he loved and cherished.

This story comes at a difficult time for me, as I constantly find I'm reaching crossroads in my life; movements of consequence and commitment. The story of Phil forces me to confront these things, and realise that I am still here and he is not. In a strange way, he gave his life for me to live mine. I know that the action that he was experiencing in Afghanistan did not directly affect me. However, He took the road I did not; which feels like it serves a purpose in demonstrating to me the intensity and unpredictability of life, but also shows me that I am alive; and that there is no reason for me to waste what I do have. If I live to be ninety seven, I'll have lived a life much longer than that of Phil; who deserved exactly the same as me, and yet had it taken from him in such a volatile and destructive manner it was offensive.

I could write in passages forever about life and how it is unfathomable in so many ways, but I think the most clever man in the world actually put it in such a beautifully blunt way; I shall steal his understanding and end upon such a note. Albert Einstein once said "learn from yesterday, live for today, and hope for tomorrow".

I learned from Phil, and for that, I owe him everything.