On the morning of September 9, 2009, in Dundee, Scotland, hundreds gathered at St. Mary’s Church to mourn the loss of Private Kevin Elliott. The 24-year-old soldier from the Black Watch regiment had been killed by a Taliban ambush in Afghanistan’s Helmand province. Among the sea of mourners dressed in black, one figure stood out: Kevin’s best friend, Barry Delaney, in a tight lime-green Primark mini-dress and pink knee-high socks.
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Three years earlier, Elliott and Delaney had made a pact while sitting together watching TV. Kevin, fearing what lay ahead in Afghanistan, joked that if he died, Barry should attend his funeral in the brightest, loudest dress possible. They laughed, shook hands, and agreed: the dress would be neon, maybe even pink with green spots. It was their way of turning a grim fear into a pact of loyalty.
That promise became reality far sooner than either expected.
Eight weeks before the funeral, Elliott had returned home on a short break from his tour. Sitting in Delaney’s tenth-floor flat in Dundee, the two friends shared drinks and worries. Kevin admitted he was terrified. Afghanistan, he said, was deadlier than Iraq, where he had already served during the Black Watch’s deployment to the “Triangle of Death” in 2004. He told Barry about horrific scenes—comrades killed by hidden bombs, body parts carried from the battlefield under fire. Kevin feared he wouldn’t make it back.
“He was really scared about going back. At times it seemed like he knew something was going to happen.”
Delaney later recalled.
Despite his fear, Kevin still held onto small dreams. In a letter home, written just two days before his death, he tried to sound upbeat. He talked about wanting to take a holiday in Thailand with his army friends if he survived the tour. But between the lines was his unease:
“It’s fucking shit, can’t wait to get back,”
he admitted in block letters.
On August 31, 2009, Kevin Elliott was killed in Babaji district during a Taliban ambush. His worst fears had come true.
When the day of the funeral arrived, Delaney kept his word. That morning, he pulled on the £4.99 dress, slid into 99-pence pink socks, and poured a glass of vodka—his and Kevin’s favorite drink. For an hour, he sat on his pink sofa, drinking and remembering their last conversations. Then his friend Jonathan Wells picked him up for the short drive to St. Mary’s. Neither man spoke about the outfit. Everyone knew why Barry wore it.
More than a thousand people lined the streets outside the church. While some raised eyebrows, most understood. Kevin’s sister, Kirsty, hugged Barry hard. His grandmother squeezed his hand, whispering that everything would be all right. At Barnhill cemetery, as the Black Watch riflemen fired over the grave, Barry collapsed in grief.
“I was bending down to ask him if he liked the dress’s color. My legs gave way when I realized he’d never answer.”
he said later.
Kevin Elliott had joined the army at sixteen, like many young men from Dundee, a city deeply tied to the Black Watch regiment. He was known as a livewire, always smiling and putting others at ease. He admitted he didn’t fully understand why British forces were in Afghanistan, but he wanted the medals from serving in both Iraq and Afghanistan—his way of proving himself.
Barry Delaney never joined the army. He drifted between laboring jobs, struggling with Dundee’s high unemployment. Yet the two were inseparable when Kevin was home, often found together in local pubs like Fat Sam’s. Their friendship was built on laughter, honesty, and unshakable loyalty.
The green dress was more than a joke fulfilled. It was a symbol. It cut through the formality of a military funeral with a human reminder of who Kevin really was: a young man with fears, laughter, and a bond with his best friend. For many in Dundee, the sight of Barry in that dress wasn’t seen as disrespectful but as a touching tribute. It showed that promises between friends can outlast even death.
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