Dusty Wentworth

The First Contact – Silence in Uniform May 1994. I'd just returned from Bosnia, and something had followed me home. Not a tangible enemy, but a creeping unease, a hollowness that grew with each passing day. Soon after, while still in uniform, I was first diagnosed with PTSD. At first, it was small things—trouble sleeping, a sense of unease I couldn’t quite name. But it got worse. Not in a dramatic or obvious way, just steadily, quietly. A slow, insidious decline. Something wasn't right. I knew that. But I didn't want to admit it. Not to the medical officer. Not to my mates. Not even to myself. Because in the infantry, you're not supposed to crack. I told myself I had to hold the line. I couldn’t be the weak link in the platoon's chain. So I didn't ask for help. Instead, I drank. Alcohol became my armour. It dulled the edge enough to function. In my head, that seemed like the only viable option. Because if I came clean—if I said I was struggling—I bel...