Morning friend.
Have you ever noticed what time this briefing arrives each Sunday?
Eleven minutes past nine.
There is a reason for that.
On 11 September 2001, I was on Dartmoor, about twenty-four weeks into Royal Marines training. We were on a river crossing and cliff assault exercise, six weeks away from passing out as Commandos.
Cold, wet, hungry.
Another opportunity to practise the Commando quality you need most when crawling through cold water and scaling exposed cliff faces.
Cheerfulness in the face of adversity.
One of the training team had gone to collect a few supplies. He returned a couple of hours later just as the mist had lifted.
He had heard the news of the September 11 attacks unfolding on the radio.
Everyone knows where they were on 9/11.
That morning, I was a Royal Marines recruit preparing for another day of training.
By that afternoon, I was preparing for war.
We were told that, as Commandos and spearhead for the British Armed Forces in early 2002, this moment would shape the service we were about to enter.
It shaped the next twenty years of my life.
I had joined the Royal Marines because I wanted to find belonging.
I was an ordinary young man from an ordinary town who simply wanted to become part of something extraordinary.
I knew that joining the Marines meant that I could be sent to war one day. But I never imagined that decision would be made for me so soon.
Early the following year, I deployed to Afghanistan with a clear mission.
Find Osama Bin Laden and keep our country safe.
That is why this briefing arrives in your inbox every Sunday at 09:11.
It’s a small reminder of the day my choice to serve our country became real.
And a reminder of the moment that the future we all expected changed forever.
On Wednesday, I drove to meet a mate.
A man who led at the sharpest edge of military and covert operations for decades. The first person to reach out and offer support when I left that world for good.
We went for a walk and had a coffee in the autumn sun.
An hour outdoors, making space for an honest conversation.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote to you about making more time for friends. This was me doing something about it.
Something ordinary. Something so important.
I had joined the Marines because I wanted to belong. Twenty-five years later, there is still much to value in simply spending time with someone who understands what walking the path of service really means.
This morning, I will be at the Cenotaph in Leeds, proudly wearing my green beret and medals.
I will be remembering people who had friends they wanted to see again. People who had their own lives to get back to.
Some never had another Wednesday like ours.
An ordinary life is a precious thing.
Having somewhere you belong, with people you love, without the threat of war deciding what tomorrow might look like.
Helping to protect that possibility for someone else is an extraordinary commitment to make.
Today is their day.
I am grateful to the people whose service helped make our ordinary lives possible, and to those still doing the work of protecting us.
Many of us will have someone in our family who served. Perhaps a friend.
You might know their story well. Maybe you don’t.
Perhaps all you have is an old photograph, or a name you heard spoken when you were young.
Someone who belonged to your family before you were here.
Today feels like a good day to say their name out loud and to be thankful for the chance to do something ordinary, like a walk in the sun with a mate.
Before we go any further, let’s take a moment to debrief together:
Whose service have you never really stopped to think about?
Your mission this week (if you choose to accept it):
Make remembrance personal today.
Think of someone in your family or community who served. If they are still here, thank them, and listen if they want to talk.
If they are gone, tell someone their story. Your children, perhaps. And if you do not know enough to tell it, make a start on finding it out.
Today is a day for remembering.
Perhaps eleven minutes past nine can give us a moment to remember every Sunday.
Of an ordinary person who never came home, and the ordinary life they should have had the chance to live.
That’s enough for now.
More next Sunday.
Mike
