We would like to introduce you to our new addition to Soldiers Off The Street: Neil Jackson CIOJ accredited photojournalist.
Neil feels the same as us and is determined to help the forgotten ex service personnel whose lives have been affected by homelessness.

The Military Covenant!

I was taking night photographs in London, having returned from visiting Canada that day in March just gone, and I noticed an elderly homeless man outside Charing Cross station.
Know any stations open this time of night?
No, they're all shut.

Despite my winter gear, it was cold; just above zero. The guy was wearing a thin coat, thin trousers, shoes. Dirty and smelling. He was shivering.
Shut? Why? I thought London never slept. So where's your kit? You sleeping rough?
He nodded, hands buried in pockets.
No kit. Nothing left. This is the warmest place; you can keep out of the wind on the steps.
Jesus man; it's freezing.
The steps led down to the tube and at the bottom there was an iron concertina shutter. I'd done with walking for the night and stated chatting to him. His name was John, an ex Royal Engineers sergeant. I asked him a few seemingly innocent questions to establish the truth to his military claim and, satisfied, went rummaging in the bins for some clean cardboard and freebie newspapers. We sat on the steps and chatted, the chill from the floor now kept at bay.
Left the army, wife left him - she now homeless somewhere too, lost everything, no trade except security guard. A broken, ruined man. All around me the rich partied, jogging through the chill air, laughing as they raced for taxis. To them I too was homeless; sat huddled against the cold, wrapped in shemagh, goretex waterproofs, gloves, ronhills under jeans, layer after layer on top. Still I was cold through sitting still.
At about four, Underground construction workers finished a shift, waking me by rattling the shutter and loading their van. It took more than one run. One of them glanced at us.
Best padlock it or we'll have these two in among the power tools.
I looked at the guy through a crack in my shemagh. Despite hundreds passing, this was the first comment about us. I dozed off again.

Later, the police came, waking us.
You guys okay?
I nodded, John coughed as he stirred.
We're fine.
Good, good.
And off they went.
Well, that was pleasant. They seemed decent enough. I was expecting worse.
John looked at me.
When we die, they get a bollocking. It means they aren't keeping an eye on their patch. And that's what they are there to do - keep an eye out. Nothing else.
He buried his face in his sleeve again, minimizing contact with the cold air.

I was beginning to see the walls drawing in, the stunted horizon that was daily reality here; the next hot brew, the chance of a shower near Trafalgar Square, the dangers all around.
The military covenant wasn't worth a square of toilet roll in John's world. Staring at the rattling night buses heading down The Strand, I felt a fear I had never known in the uniform of an infantry NCO. Another few years of halted building sites, strangled business, wages when available driven into the dirt by competition and recession... could that be me?
The faces peered out of the night buses, oblivious to this small island of misery. Uncomfortable, choosing to ignore, lost in their own battles with debt.

I saw both of them a few months later, myself up to no good as usual. Jack had been given a pasting by the police in the cells of Charing Cross after disrespecting a plastic policeman. It was on the Grenadier's annual remembrance day, and Jack had been celebrating. He met the wrong officious jobsworth, and so his face had been battered by the guy's affronted regular back-up.
The SAS guy was wearing full desert combats and 95-pattern webbing. I'd have laughed at the claim, but I recognised his face. A cold chill, as cold as a Charing Cross winters sleep, wrapped itself around my spine.
If it could happen to this guy, it could happen to any of us. Thank God I'd got a trade, to insulate myself from this pit these people had been left in by their governent.
Behind Jack, behind the wall of the Ritz his back was hunkered against, the powerful and rich enjoyed themselves, oblivious. As they had been when the guys were preparing their kit for ops, as they had been when the incoming fire peppered the ground with geysers of dirt at Goose Green (he's the guy selling the Big Issue outside McDonalds, The Strand). As they had been when the troops had stood on a high wall somewhere, anywhere, looking out. Protecting us.
Within a week of the new government being installed the head of the first cabinet minister was claimed due to expenses swindling; Treasury chief David Laws paid more than £40,000 of our money to his long-term partner. On another planet, yet still in Westminster, it costs about 80 pence for a cup of tea in McDonalds. You can nurse it in the warmth for an hour before the staff start getting tetchy.

Our work is only possible with the assistance of generous donations from you. Without donations from supporters such as yourself, the people who will benefit from Soldiers off the streets's services ex service personnel will be left to face their challenges with homelessness all alone. It is our belief that every ex service personnel dealing with homelessness deserves the support that we are ready and willing to give.

We are under no allusions that we can help them all, we know there are other organisations trying to do their best but there are so many ex service personnel living on the streets no one can help them all.

Will you help us help ex service personnel in need? Your financial support can help us make a positive difference in the lives of people coping with homelessness. Your donation can make an immediate impact. Every pound you send provides help to those in need. We look forward to receiving your generous donation.

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