Michael C. Heywood

Born in 1960, Mick has been married to Donna since 1983. They have 3 lovely children, Janine (21), Ryan (17), and Natalie (15).

Having served 25 years in the British Army, starting life as a Vehicle Mechanic in the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers mostly in Germany, Mick has seen service in Northern Ireland, the first Gulf War, Bosnia, and Cyprus. He has been to Canada 8 times to the British Army Training Unit in Suffield – Alberta, Poland with Heavy Armour, and Denmark with the Harrier Support Squadron Royal Engineers making short runways.

During his service, Mick has had the honour to have served with many famous British Regiments such as The Life Guards, Blues and Royals, and Queens Royal Irish Hussars, to name a few.

After electing discharge from the Army in 2001, Mick and went into the rail industry as a fitter and have quickly worked my way up to Production Manager on a £4.8 million project overhauling Class 455 trains at Ashford in Kent.

Living 4 minutes away from the beach in Palm Bay, Margate Kent, Mick enjoys jogging, power boating, jet skiing etc. He owns an Aprilia RSV Mille 1000cc super bike which he enjoys thrashing about on, when he gets some spare time.

More of Mick’s writings are available for reading at www.forcespoetry.co.uk under Mick H

A HERO SOLDIER

IWVPA Double Tap Award for War Poetry
Awarded: October 24, 2006
In Basra’s war torn city, a soldier stands so tall,
Smiling at the locals, with his back against a wall,
Beneath a veil of calmness, his heart beats like a drum,
Thinking of the folks he loves, his girl back home and Mum,

The sun is burning down on him; it burns his reddened skin,
This checkpoint duty daily, wears his temper wafer thin,
Another hour of waiting, to protect this peasant mob
Then back home to the bunker for a shower and get some grub

A young girl reaches up to him, a scar upon her face,
Her Daddy won’t be coming home; this picture takes his place,
A tear runs down a dirty cheek and rags adorn her feet,
She laughs then skips to join the queue for bread and more to eat,

A cloud of dust arises, a scream runs through the stalls,
His senses into overdrive, he strains to see the cause,
He sights a dark Sedan, inside a body dressed in black,
The soldier charges forward screaming warnings to get back,

He clearly sees the face and eyes of one that’s set to die,
His forward movement halted, as he hears a muted cry,
The girl that smiled so kindly now lay injured on the ground,
He stoops to raise her fragile form, and turns himself around

The blast was heard for miles around, he felt the red hot air,
Felt molten iron down his back; his head was raised in prayer,
God help this tiny child I hold, the last thought in his mind,
His limbs were scattered far and wide, the pieces all to find

Quiet through the market now, the dust cloud falls to ground,
A mourning mass was gathered, such a grisly mess they found
The soldier’s body buried deep beneath a market stall,
A muffled cry of help they heard, a tiny little call

They dug and pulled the stall out, the soldier long was dead,
But underneath his body they could see a tiny head,
They lifted out the torso, and then helped her stand-alone
She could not see the carnage yet or hear the injured moan

In Basra’s war torn city, a soldier stands so tall,
Smiling at the locals, with his back against a wall,
He wonders who the plaque was for fifteen years ago
A scarred girl lays her flowers, says a prayer and turns to go