Bora Da every one, well it is the morning here.

I am a Welsh photographer, originally from the Rhondda Valley, but following a number of years in military roles, working for 5 years with US military personnel in Iraq, I settled down in Newport with my wonderful wife and two children.

I have a blog site at;

http://taff-oakfield.blogspot.com/

and a web page at;

http://www.oakfield-photography.com/

It would be great to hear from you all and get some feedback on my sites.

Stefan (Taff) Edwards

I hope this story is of some interest to you. I can assure you it is true.Butterfly SoldierFor as long as I can remember I had wanted to be a soldier, there were periods of time when other things took my fancy, such as being a vet, a house painter, game keeper and truck driver, but throughout I still longed for the life of a soldier.There was however one fact that should prevent this from ever taking place, and in fact would have excluded, if made known, any application I would make to become a soldier, I suffer from the genetic disorder commonly known as EB (Epidermolysis Bullosa).There are several forms EB can take, from the most severe, which results in the individuals skin separating from the body through the slightest touch or knock, to the mild form which results in blistering of the hands and feet and the skin in general being much weaker than other peoples.I have the latter condition, passed down through my fathers mothers side of the family. This condition is also present in my sister and brother.As a child I constantly had some form of blistering on my feet and my hands. My legs, from the knees to by ankles and elbows were always in some stage of damage or healing. I remember the bed sheets being constantly spotted with blood from those injuries, from scabs being knocked off or plasters falling off during sleep.I was regarded as being clumsy by other people outside of the family, including the local doctors as EB was not a recognised condition back then, and I was made to feel weak and clumsy. I longed to play rugby, but after an hour on the pitch I would have blisters on my feet, cuts on my hands and various scrapes all over my body.To make matters worst I had a violent father, who regularly beat me for getting cut and taking part in such sports. Also in those days, the early 70s, first aid dressings were pretty poor and in my home town, Penygraig in the Rhondda Valley, life was pretty hard all round.My play ground was the open mountains, where the remnants of the previous coal mines littered the landscape and the streets where we played football, as well as the tarmac surfaces of the school playground where the hustle bustle of young life unfolded.For me these areas were mine fields of danger. There was rarely a day that went by without me injuring myself in some way. Teachers in school had no concept of the condition, even though my mother attempted to tell them, and they would treat my cuts as they would any other and just considering me clumsy.There were times when I would get very low as a child, usually with my hands stinging or itching following a fall and the inevitable removal of the skin on my palms, or during the days when my father would make me perform manual labour in the garden, swinging a pick or using a shovel until my hands were so bad with blisters that I would have to wrap cloth around them to ease the pain as the blisters burst. I think my father was really trying to toughen me up, in his mind, but perhaps a young 8 to 10 year old boy should not be exposed to this sort of thing.As a child there were many occasions, and sometimes even as an adult, I have laid in my bed at night, first praying to heaven and then when that did not work just wishing as hard as I could that there would be some cure found and I would be normal, that I would be able to take part in life to its fullest and be able to do all the things the other boys did, without bleeding, blistering or scrapping skin off all the time.Throughout this early period I remained determined to try and fit in with the other boys, but I must confess that the constant cuts through playing with the boys and the wounds I would get from the smallest fights, even if I won, eventually made me rather introverted and I gradually extracted myself from the group and became more of a loner. But still I always longed to be a soldier.I found myself drawn to hunting and became quite proficient. Shooting was something I could do well and rarely resulted in damage to my skin, stalking through the woods could be done slowly, so blistering on my feet was kept to a minimum and it was something I could do alone or with a friend, which meant that any cuts could be dealt with quickly and quietly without much fuss. But still I longed to be a soldier.Eventually I made my way to the Army recruitment office in Pontpridd and decided I would take the entrance test to see what would happen; I was 15 at the time. I passed the entrance test, much to my surprise as I also had some difficulty reading and doing maths in school and was generally considered a bit dim by my teachers and friends. I have to this day a problem with maths and spelling.I went home and made my desire to join the army known, and was once again beaten by my father who refused to sign the papers for me to join. I remained determined though and continued to petition my father to get him to sign the forms, which he eventually did following a number of beating and a considerable amount of shouting, where I was told I would never make it and would fail.I must confess my skin condition did worry me and I was not sure how I would get through the riggers of basic training never mind becoming a full time soldier.I decided if I did not at least try then I would regret it for the rest of my life, I also think I was trying to find a way of escaping an overbearing and abusive father, but I dont think that was obvious to me back then.I eventually succeeded in getting accepted as a junior infantry soldier in the Queens Division. This was an odd move as I would be the only Welsh lad in a very English environment, but none of this bothered me, I just wanted to get in before anyone found out about my skin and turned me away.At the beginning of 1980 I boarded a train from Porth Station, in the Rhondda Valleys of South Wales. I still remember my mother crying at the station seeing me off, and began my journey to Bassingbourn Bks near Royston in England.This journey however almost ended before it began. I arrived in Paddington Station and knew, from the instructions in my letter from the army that I had to get to Kings Cross, via the underground. I walked over to the entrance to the underground and looked at the large, in my mind complex map, a 16 year old with no experience of life outside the Rhondda, and I was in a blind panic.I had no idea how to read the underground map and I found the large crowds of people all about me very intimidating.I was on the verge of crying and was starting to contemplate how I could get back on a train and head home, not sure how to do that either and with the thought of my father saying I said you would not be able to do it when I got there put me in total panic.At this point a passer by must have seen the look on my face and asked if they could help, I hesitantly told them where I needed to go to and they explained the map to me and told me where I had to go to find the train. With this small push I found the courage to continue the journey.I eventually arrived at Royston Train Station and getting off the train I found a very large number of other lads of my age, all looking as bemused and apprehensive as me. There were a number of NCOs waiting for us and we were quickly herded onto a couple of 4tn trucks and heading to, what was to become my home for nearly 12 month, Bassingbourn Bks.At each individual stage of the journey, each change of train, each walk to the next platform almost resulted in me turning around and heading home, but now at this late stage of the journey there was no turning back.There were over 80 recruits in my intake and being the only Welsh lad there I kind of stood out from the crowd. We were quickly sorted in to squads and were told we were all part of Salamanca platoon. We were issued our uniforms and our civilian clothing was taken away from us. We were instructed in how to make a bed, shave and wash as well as iron and fold our clothes. Then the real training began.Our days were made up of running about, weapon training and marching about. The short leg boots issues in those days complete with putties, a cloth wrap that wound around the top of the boot, were not the most forgiving of footwear. All the boys were getting blisters and I can assure you I was no exception. The difference was their skin quickly toughened, mine did not.The top of the boots also rubbed the skin off my shins, which even to this day has little hair growing on it when compared to the rest of my leg.I lived with blisters on my feet, from surface blisters easily popped to deep blisters under the skin of the heals. The latter of which I made several attempts to dig down to but always failed as they were way to deep. The given recommendation for blister treatment is to leave them alone and they will dry up themselves, unfortunately in my case surface blisters, if not popped, would quickly spread under the rest of the skin and could easily double in side if pressure was applied to them for any reason. But when all is said and done they did sting like hell for a few hours after popping, by the way I cant pop them with a pin as the hole quickly heals over and the blister refills, I have to cut the top off them, but they did heal fairly quickly after that and within 2 days I would be able to ignore them all together. The deep blisters however were agony and remained in place for at least a week. I used to make a cotton wool doughnut and put that between the blister and my boot, which gave me some comfort.My battle with blisters on my feet would remain with me throughout my 4 plus years in the regular army and even though my feet did get some semblance of toughening they never achieved anything more than the normal level of toughness any normal person has. Cuts to the rest of the body however took some serious managing.Weapon handling drills would result in me cutting or blistering my hands in one way or another. PT and combat training would deliver scrapes and cuts to my arms and legs on a very regular basis, but I could not allow anyone to see this or I would have been dismissed from the army immediately and that would have broken my heart. I then began boxing training, this also caused me problems. There were the normal cuts to my knuckles if I hit the punch bag at an odd angle, with or without gloves, but there was also the skinning of my back from rubbing against the ropes and the cheeks of my face from the blows. Both of these were not obviously visible and I quickly found that Vaseline kept the skin relatively smooth and scab free, but boy did it hurt to get in a shower afterwards.One of the worst things I had to endure was the forced marches in full gear. Not only did the boots produce a multitude of blisters but the webbing straps, ammunition pouches and back pack would constantly remove copious amounts of skin from my hips, lower back and shoulders.There were occasions when I would sit by myself and think it was all to much, I was fed up with the pain, fed up with the limitations of my skin and contemplated jacking it all in on more than one occasion.During these dark moments I would think of my father telling me I had failed again and how right he was and besides that - I liked the life, no I loved the life and did not want to give it up, never mind give my father the satisfaction of seeing me fail.I only ever confided in two mates about my skin condition, Terry and Salty and both helped my through a number of days when things were very difficult and the pain was a little bit more than I could cope with. I still dont know if they really understood what my condition was, or how bad I was getting cut and blistered, but they were always there for me.My frustrations were evident when I could not run as far as I knew the rest of my body could go, due to my feet giving up on me, yes I would finish the run and yes I would be in the top 3rd of the field, but no where near where I should have been if it was not for the blisters. This frustration would constantly dog me throughout my time in the military and beyond.I managed my pain, not through medication but by just ignoring it as best I could, and eventually not only got through my basic training but was given awards for being the Best Overall Recruit, Best at Military Studies and Best at Physical Education. On top of this I achieved the highest junior rank available at the time, Junior Sergeant and passed out of the infantry depot a professional soldier.I still think back on those training days with a mix of immense affection as well as utter despair at the level of pain I put myself through.All things considered, I would do it all again if given the chance.From my training dept I was sent to my unit, the 2nd Bn The Queens Regiment, 1 platoon and another chapter in my life would commence.I had a best friend, who came from the dept with me called Girvan and we were more interested in living it up in the local pubs than pursuing a life as a hardened soldier. I once again joined the boxing team, which kept me training and fit and my life in the army continued without much of a problem, apart from the day to day foot blisters and general cuts that you would associate with this kind of life.Life was great, yes I still had to deal with blisters and cuts, but I was still doing what I wanted to do and I knew my limitations, by constantly pushing them. Following postings to Colchester in the UK and then Cyprus I was deployed with the Bn to Northern Ireland. This was to be the start of an 18 month posting and was going to push my capabilities and resolve even further.Shortly after arriving in Londonderry in 1983, where we were based, I was given the opportunity to join a specialist platoon. My best buddy Girvan was away at the time doing a course and I was a bit bored.I agreed to take the selection course and see what would happen, fully expecting to return to my platoon at the end of it. Once the course started I loved it. It did however involve a great many runs and yes a great many blisters. But the job was great. I completed the course and was sent back to my unit.The thought of me not joining the special unit full time was now unthinkable and I would once again do whatever it took to stay in it.For nearly 18 months I did a job I truly loved, as part of a very small team of men. I found that if I constantly trained I could keep my feet at an acceptable level of toughness, for me that is and I could keep going, but if I stopped training for even a week my skin would start to go soft and I would have to start again toughening it up. My hands were my main problem; I could wear gloves whenever possible which helped enormously, but any large cuts on my hands would attract attention and prevent me from working, so I have to be very careful.I have perhaps not talked about the damage my hands could be susceptible to and indeed did endure, let me try and explain. If I was to unthinkingly apply twisting pressure to some thing, like a rope, bottle or jar top or even when weight training, the skin on the hands would blister. If I fell forward and put my hands out to break my fall or took slightly less care when performing menial tasks, the skin would peel off.Any knocks to my hands could potentially removed skin and they were always being knocked. I have had to deal with this all my life, but I found that if I kept my wits about me I could prevent many of these injuries by just being extremely careful.It was while I was in Londonderry that my 3 year service in the military was up and the army was pressuring me to sign on for another 6 years. I must now confess that I was pretty fed up of getting bashed about and being in pain for must of the time and knowing that the Bn was about to return to a UK posting for another 12 months before heading out to Germany did not hold any attractions for me at all. I applied for and was accepted into the Northern Ireland Police and I fully intended to take up a life there and so tendered my resignation.At my resignation meeting with my Commanding Officer I explained that I had no desire to return to life in the UK as a soldier, but had greatly enjoyed my time in Northern Ireland and thought it best that I leave. He then offered to sponsor my application to join the SAS, and for more than just a fleeting moment my mind nearly took control over my common sense, so I stated I was good but not that good and would still like to leave the army.I know in my heart that passing selection for the SAS was beyond my capability. No matter how fit my body was, the skin would always let me down and this was one challenge, and the only one I can think of, which I walked away from without giving it at least a go.At the last moment, when I left the army, the northern Ireland police training camp was shut down for a period of time due to some health and safety scandal that was shown on the news and as I was already out of the army with no where to go, I could not stay in Ireland in those days without a gun, it was with some reluctance I returned to Wales, not sure what to do with myself.I immediately got a job as a security guard, very little money and working 7 12 hour night shift a week was soul destroying. But I would not sign on the dole and I would take any work that earned me money.During this time I kept myself fit and then thought about looking for a new challenge. It was at this time a new Karate club was about to open in the Llantrisant Leisure Centre. Martial arts were always a fascination for me, but my skin had made me very weary of taking it on. I thought I would give it a go and see how it turned out.Well once again I found something I loved doing, but I cant begin to tell you how much skin I must have lost during the several years I trained, mainly from my knuckles, forearms, shins and chest. But as the cuts were abrasions, watery and nearly invisible as they bled very little, no one really knew about the problem.I trained as hard as I could for nearly 4 years, during which time I met my future wife and achieved my Brown Belt in the style. The style by the way could not have been more challenging for my skin, Kukushinki, which is a full contact style with no gloves and very heavy on the contact. Perhaps not the most sensible choice for my skin condition but there again nor was the army.I continued training right up until I got married and the need to spend time with my new wife and work on the house, as well as take my civilian job more seriously made it inevitable that I would have to stop training. My job had changed slightly by this time and I was a Security Manager for a large retail store. The damp patches on my shirt sleeves from the constant scrapped skin were causing some thing of a problem, and the cut knuckles also clashed with the suit and tie.Since getting married I have taken up Akido, which removed lots of skin from my wrists and hands due to the constant grappling and throws that we did and fencing, which left blisters on my hand from holding the blade for extended periods as well as loss of skin on the arms and legs from being hit with the point of the blade.I also worked in the security field for a number of years which involved me arresting a great number of individuals for theft, which they were not happy about and usually required some form of persuasion, which again left me scratched and grazed. Then I got the military bug once again and contemplated heading back into uniform, this time by joining the TA.My first approach quite literally took my breath away. I first made an approach to the TA SAS unit in Newport South Wales, only to be told that I was too old. I must confess that this came as a bit of a shock to me, my age was something I had never considered a problem, focusing on my skin all the time, but I guess we must all get old at some stage. I did not however give up on the military and instead of setting my sights on a combat unit I opted for Military Intelligence. Having no clear idea if I was up to this challenge either, which would not necessarily challenge my skin and pain thresholds but provide me with another sort of challenge, while keeping me in touch with the army, which in my heart of hearts I still love?Following a lengthy and challenging selection process I became a member of the British Military Intelligence Corp and life would once again push me to my limits.As part of this unit there was a requirement to complete a run each year, which inevitable resulted in a great deal of blisters on my feet and days of pain afterwards. It was almost impossible for me to keep my feet tough as I spent most of my time in a suite and tie and had very little time to run, never mind run in boots, but I kept going and still did not show the army that I had any sort of skin condition. During my time with the TA Int Corp I have been to Oman and Iraq, the latter was yet another turning point in my life which sent me off in a direction full of challenges.Following my 6 month tour of Iraq in 2003 I returned home, only to find my company had replaced me and my original job was no longer available, making every day there an issue for me until I finally resigned. I had no desire to take on the stress of fighting this case, I was still adjusting to life at home following my time in Iraq and the army took no interest in my situation so I just left and moved on.I found another job quiet quickly but was totally fed up with the civilian security industry and I was giving serious consideration to an offer that was being made to me by a mate who had left Iraq just after me and had since returned there to work as a civilian security contractor for the US DoD, assisting in the reconstruction program.In 2005 I took up the offer and returned to Iraq and have been here ever since.I still have to deal with the weakness of my skin, but if I only have this life to live but once, then I will do the job my soul, if not my skin, was born to do.And yes I do have a family, with one son and one daughter. My son does not have the skin condition, but my daughter does. However I have learned one or two things about dealing with my cuts and blisters and I hope, no, I know this has made my daughter able to deal with her condition far better than I did at her age.But my son, you cant begin to imagine just how much joy I feel when I see him fall flat on his face while running in the street, to then get up brush off his hands and trousers and carry on with no cuts. Strange though that sounds its true and I hope he is able to do with his life far more than I was able to do with mine.And still, despite all the pain, if I was given the choice to do it all over again, yes I would.