“Dozer! Movement at your 9 o’clock!”

“Yes Sarge! I’ll check it out!”

Lance Corporal Bill “Dozer” McGuire lifted the telescopic sight to his eye and scanned the horizon to his left. As he panned around, he caught sight of two guys scuttling away.

“Couple of ragheads Sarge! Unarmed.”

“Thanks Dozer! OK lads, on your feet!”

The squad rose wearily from their rest, packing short ration packs and water bottles away. Spacing themselves, they started off down the dusty path with Dozer covering the rear.

BOOOOM! An explosion cut the air; he threw himself onto his belly and slithered into the undergrowth beside the path. Not hearing anything from the Sergeant, Dozer took command.

“Squad! Number off and for God’s sake keep your eyes open for Tallies”.

He counted as the squad shouted their responses, assessing the severity of the situation.

“Sparky! Put a call in for an urgent medevac – one body, two wounded.”

Moments later, a shot rang out, then another. The squad threw themselves into cover and began to return fire. Fear, adrenaline and training all kicked in and the insurgents were held at bay. The sporadic fire fight continued for what seemed like an age and then, with the unmistakable chop-chop-chop of the approaching Chinook, the Taliban fighters melted away as quickly as they’d appeared.

In the calm that followed, despite his weariness, he stood point as the medics loaded the sergeant’s body onto the Chinook. Finally he waited for his men to board the Chinook, before stepping onto the tailgate himself and signalling the crew to take off. As everyone relaxed and settled for the short hop back to base and the aircraft started to rise, Dozer caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He watched the grenade arc through the air, bounce on the rising tailgate and rattle towards him. Without a moment’s hesitation he threw himself forward, grabbed the grenade and threw it with all his strength through the rapidly closing gap. Almost immediately an explosion ripped the air and the Chinook tail was thrown violently upwards by the blast. Dozer felt a searing pain in his knee and then blacked out.

Now his life flew by in a blur; the kneecap shattered by shrapnel from the Taliban grenade was rebuilt as best they could, but he would always have a limp. He was awarded the Military Medal for his heroic action in saving the aircraft and his men. Then, almost immediately, he was invalided out of the Army. His career over and a succession of jobs in which he just couldn’t settle he'd found himself penniless and on the streets of London begging for scraps.

Outside the station, Dozer sat wrapped in a grubby blanket and yet he still felt frozen. He watched impassively as the concert goers passed by. Girls in short skirts, guys in smart casuals; young and old they were streaming along the road towards the stadium.

He no longer felt the weather; rain or shine, summer or winter, he just picked a likely spot and sat begging for scraps, trying desperately to get through another day. No-one stopped to pass the time of day, no-one noticed his pallid complexion or the blood flecked mucus when he coughed. Instead they just stared with disgust and hurried on their way.

He idly wondered what they were all going to see, then the hunger pangs and another hacking fit made him lose his train of thought. He wiped a gob of bloody mucus on his sleeve and lay his head back against the station wall.

“Would you have some change to spare mate?”, Dozer held out a grubby polystyrene cup.

“Piss off old man!” a late concert goer snarled, “get a proper job”.

Away in the distance a disembodied voice boomed out from the stadium.

“Good Evening Twickenham! Welcome to Help for Heroes!”

Dozer laughed.