Meet the Wives

I was not apprehensive.  In hindsight perhaps I should have been.  I asked for etiquette tips from you before I went in but you didn’t have any for me.  I was the first partner you had introduced to the other partners.  When I say introduced, I mean, shoved into a bizarre social situation unlike any other I had previously comprehended.  There was a free bar, it was a big important celebration and there would be lots of other women, that was all I knew.

“Whose are you?” I didn’t understand the question.  A stern looking woman in her early fifties was peering down her nose at me.  I blankly stared back. “Whose are you?” Oh great, I thought to myself.  A parrot.  Airily wafting her finger around the room as if this was supposed to clarify matters the old bird waited for my response.  “I’m mine”  I said it pretty firmly in case she wasn’t ‘all there’.  ‘Whose are you’ is the sort of question you ask in a cutesy voice to a stray Jack Russell that has just bounded up to you in the park, not something one fully grown adult should say to another.  Also, it was terrible English.  She glared at me, was she reading my mind?  Perhaps I had answered the question incorrectly.  Trying again with the interrogation she barked “Are you in then?”  Am I what?  Was this woman insane?  Why was she asking me nonsensical questions?  Was it a code? My confusion was momentarily broken by a younger woman, I guessed in her early thirties, waltzing over to us and draping her arm over my shoulder.  “Ooh, fresh meat” she boozily drawled into my ear.  Abandoned Jack Russell to rump steak in two minutes flat, tonight was going to be a real treat.  “Which one is yours then?”  Argh! Which one of what is mine? What were these women talking about?  Finally it sunk in; she was asking who my boyfriend was.  I pointed you out and in response the younger woman made an ‘ooh’ noise.  The older one muttered something about you being a golden boy.  What would she have said if you were a shit no-hoper, I wondered to myself.  The old trout was direct enough to probably tell me exactly that.

I made my way over to the bar where one of your friends was standing and he promptly added my drink on to his order without being asked.  “Welcome to hell” he grinned at me.  “You are no longer you.  You are a dependent, an appendage, a plus one, a reflection of your other half.  You will be judged by him and he by you, don’t fuck it up.  Oh and the woman who pounced on you was the Brigs wife.”  Great, I thought to myself, more flipping code.  What the hell is a brig?  Isn’t that a prison cell on a boat?  My brain clunked slowly into gear.  Brigadier? How high up was that?  I didn’t want to ask him in case I sounded like a right moron.  I knew the rank structure in the military, but for a completely different service.  I went off to the loo to Google army rank structure and silently cursed myself for not doing my homework.   To be fair, I had not thought it mattered one jot who your husband was.  Oh how wrong I was!

Later on I made the ultimate social faux pas and asked the Brigadier’s wife ‘what she did’.  Apparently she doesn’t need to ‘do’ anything.  I was about to tell her that I didn’t need to be ‘owned’ by a man when rump steak lady shoved a glass of something and vodka into my face to shut me up and diverted me towards women my own age.  I owed her one.

Now petrified of saying the wrong thing, or worse, getting too drunk and saying what I had decided was precisely the right thing, I escaped outside for some air.  I found a woman-girl sitting on the back steps under the colonnade.  “First timer?” How did she know?  Did you stick L plates on my back without me noticing?  The anguish on my face clearly told it’s own story.  I sat down next to her and told her there should be some sort of ‘how to’ guide for these situations.  She gave me some sage advice, most of which I carry with me to this day; ‘never give too much of yourself away, never discuss what hubby gets up to at work, never get drunk at army social events (that one is the hardest), pick your friends carefully and even then be wary, be polite even to the horrible ones and always leave early’.

If you are the girl on the steps I never met again…. Thank you.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Where are my readers from?

This is where all my lovely readers were from in the last two months, in descending order of the amount of hits.  I must admit that I had to look Djibouti up on a map!

Things people type into search engines Part II

I know how much you love these…. here is a quick handful of obscure search hits which led people to my site:

will i lose a limb in the royal marines

who took my friend

being the girlfriend of an army

tidworth is shit

companies house – if nothing is filed at sail do need to put on companies house form?

somebody took a shit in your area

i met my bf online he is in afghan now due back any day now but i am concerned has he told me the truth

what does it mean when your boyfriend wants to swap trousers with another girl

do girls get passed around in the army

my friend steals from till advise letter

ww2 soldiers staring at women

i want to sex with my neighbour.how will inform her about my desire and how l touch

fiance oil relationship

i want to write to a soldier in afghan , how do i do this , i know his name

can i get life insurance for my army partner

lady superwomen

stolen army wife sex pics

wife bbc

naked wife in siting shower stolen phone photo

im shocked my boyfriend has doubt that i stole money from his friend

can you have 2 houses being in the army

whats a tour of afgan like?

can i get married in plymouth dockyard

can my mom put my boyfriend in jail if he’s deployed

did not restrict sex tube coupled with exercise and with her boyfriend

wants to date a army guy

sorry to boyfriend for rough behaviour quotes

leave my girlfriend for the military yahoo

can we inform the girl, who is with my boy friend

english army girls like big cock

Why are we in Afghanistan?

Every time a soldier dies the enraged shouts begin. ‘Bring them home!’ ‘Why are we even in that godforsaken hell hole anyway?’ ‘What’s the point of sending our boys over there, what has Afghanistan got to do with us?’ ‘One of our boys’ lives is not worth losing for another country’s mess. Let them sort it out’

So. Why are we in Afghanistan?

Hello to the million dollar question. In British military officer training they tell the fresh faced cadets that if you can’t narrow your reasons for going into a country down to less than three, you shouldn’t go. Then they ask them why we are in Afghanistan. The powerpoint flicks to the next page. There is a long list of reasons. The cadets laugh.

We can go over Tony Blair’s reasons for entering Afghanistan until the raggedy-haired bony old Afghan cows trundle on home, but the fact of the matter for us lot sitting here in 2012 is that we are already there, and now we must finish the job properly or we will end up going back there again in a few years.

This is a very, VERY simplified timeline of our past in Afghanistan. If you wish to read more, I highly recommend ‘War Against the Taliban: Why it All Went Wrong in Afghanistan’ by Sandy Gall. Or Googling each conflict frantically and cross researching.

First Anglo-Afghan War - British India v Afghanistan, 1839 to 1842

Why were we there?

Essentially a British Empire v Russian Empire ground gaining exercise. India was our asset and we wanted to protect her.

Who won?

We did, sort of. We smashed everything up, killed a LOT of people (the word ‘pillaging’ was used) cleared the Khyber Pass, made a stronghold in Kabul and plonked a huge garrison in Kandahar. Then we buggered off back to India.

Second Anglo-Afghan War – British India v Afghanistan, 1878 to 1880

Why were we there?

The Russians had snuck up to the borders and we wanted to make sure we had full control of Afghanistan. We sent around 40,000 troops in and attempted to occupy the entire country. This proved impossible so in the end a treaty was signed and Afghanistan self-governed, the agreement being though that the British controlled all foreign policy. They were now a pawn in our game.

Third Anglo-Afghan War – British India v Afghanistan, 6 May 1919 to 8 August 1919

Why were we there?

They were pissed off with our control over their foreign policy and tried to regain autonomy. This time, they started it. However, we had planes now and they did not, so they failed.

What did it achieve?

Both sides benefitted from this war. The British influence in Afghanistan slowly eroded, from munitions supplies to funding in Afghanistan to eventually letting the country take control over it’s own foreign policy. HOWEVER, it was here, in 1919, that the tribal aspect of Afghanistan’s culture that we today are so familiar with became strong. They were poverty stricken but battle hardened with strong leaders and formed tribal allegiances with neighbouring groups. It was these men who took part in……

The Waziristan Campaign – Britain and British India v Afghan Tribesmen, 1919 to 1920

Why were we there?

We were there already. The Waziris conducted raids on British garrisons for just under a year, following the unsettlement during the third Anglo-Afghan War. RAF Bombers helped bring this one to an end.

The Soviet Occupation – Russia v Afghanistan, 1979 to 1989

Years of civil war meant Afghanistan was now extremely unstable.  Soviet forces brought tanks, Ak47s etc. into the country and smashed the hell out of the towns and villages. They also raped a lot of the women, as your serving family members will tell you. Some of the faces of 20 and 30-something Afghans today are decidedly Eastern European in appearance.  At night, the Afghan tribesmen descended on them and took back the land they lost during the day.  Neither Britain nor Russia ever managed to gain complete control of Afghanistan, mainly due to the complex factional systems of local politics and tribal structure.  Soviet troops completed a phased withdrawal in 1989.

Downed Soviet Helicopter

We weren’t there, so why are you including this in an article about British involvement in Afghanistan?

Because we trained the mujahedin on the sly. US Navy Seals and British SAS trained, equipped and helped them fight the Russians. Rumour has it we even flew them to Scotland to train them, and the US flew them to big military bases in Virginia. We didn’t want the Russians to occupy Afghanistan.

Then when the Soviets withdrew, we dropped Afghanistan like a stone, leaving refugee camps riddled with displaced starving people, structural decimation and general lawlessness.  Splinter groups formed, run by the mujahedin fighters we had trained.  They would attack others, stealing to feed their own.  It was mayhem.  When Muslim fundamentalism in the shape of the Taliban and the Sharia Law they enforced began to rear it’s head, it seemed to provide an answer to local problems.  For the people, it brought retribution when they or their family members were wronged and set a system of rules that applied to all and that everyone understood.  To many, at first, it may have seemed like a solution.

Civil Wars in Afghanistan – 1989 to 1992 and 1992 to 1996

The first civil war was mainly infighting and by the end Afghanistan was officially “The Islamic State of Afghanistan”, had a transitional government in place and were preparing for general elections.  The second phase started because Pakistan was not happy with this and so along with the support of a militant group called Hezbi Islami tried to take down the government.  Hezbi Islami were not gaining ground fast enough however, so Pakistan started to support the Taliban.

The Rise of the Taliban – from 1994

Thanks mainly to the complete mess that Afghanistan was now in, slowly the now Pakistan (and Saudi) funded Taliban took over towns, and finally even Kabul.  They tortured to death the former UN president and his brother and displayed them hanging from concrete poles at a traffic intersection.  Women were suddenly veiled, banned from schools and forced to work at home.  Amputations became the penalty for minor crimes.  By the end of 1996 the Taliban controlled Jalalabad and much of the East and South East of the country.  It was the perfect time for militant fundamentalist training camps to be set up.

September 11^th, 2001

All eyes on Afghanistan. Bin Laden had used the training camps in the country, was he still there? On October 7^th the US begins missile attacks against Taliban and al-Qaeda targets which lasted until the beginning of 2002.

You know the rest of the story. You waved your husband, boyfriend, wife, girlfriend, son, daughter, brother or sister off onto their coach. Some of you in 2001. Some of you for the first time only when they had participated in three tours of Iraq. We are still there.

Is it our fault that we are back in Afghanistan?

In my own, possibly extremely naïve opinion? Yes.  Not ours alone, but yes.  Had we rebuilt the country we smashed to smithereens so many times nearly a century ago, maybe it would not have become the extremist haven it is today.

So when people say, ‘let’s just bring them home, what’s Afghanistan got to do with us anyway?’ Now you can tell them. It has everything to do with us. Yes, it’s shit that our troops have to go out there. Yes, we may have messed up by taking our eyes off it whilst we fought in Iraq. Yes, we probably should have done things differently. Yes, it has been a massive waste of life, theirs and ours. But now, finally we have made progress, and will continue to make progress when the combat tours end and the restructuring and mentoring of Afghan forces carries on.

If we had just upped-and-left before the country was ready, it may have resulted in our own child or grandchild dying on an Afghan combat tour in a few years time when we ended up going back there to sort it all out…….. again.

The idiot’s guide to ISAF deployment in Afghanistan

Here is a map of Afghanistan. Remembering which countries it borders may prove handy in pub quizzes

As you can see from the index (ignore the numbers, they are out of date by two years) the side bordering Pakistan is the most hostile part of Afghanistan (E, SE, S)

This is where the different units are based, along with a handy guide in case you can't remember your nation flags. No, we don't know what Germany are doing up there either.

Introducing…. Welsh Wallace

As you know, I don’t normally do this.  In fact, I never, ever do this.

I would like to introduce my readers to a new blog, one that tells the story of a friend of mine.  In 2005 she was blinded by an IED in Iraq, the same time that my other half was serving there.  Since then she has overcome possibly every single hurdle imaginable (and some which are not quite so easy to imagine).  From experiencing sudden blindness to coping with domestic violence, betrayal by the system supposed to protect her, bullying and harassment by members of the public, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and on top of that having to start her life all over again, she has quite literally soldiered through it all.  Through her writing my eyes were opened to not only the worst that humanity has to offer, but also to the best.  This lady is true a fighter and her achievements to date are inspiring.  I am proud to call her a friend, proud of where she is now in her life and even more proud that I can show you her story.  Read, cry, laugh, and don’t forget to share it with your friends.  I give you Welsh Wallace

FAQs – Sending Mail to Afghanistan

Post isn’t the only method of contact with your deployed service person, so click here to find out the other ways you can stay in touch.

How do I know where to send things?

Ask your service person for their BFPO address.

What is BFPO?

It is the British Forces Post Office, based in RAF Northolt.  They send military mail for UK forces all over the world, to troops based in other countries, all military bases in the UK and to those serving on exercises and deployments where BFPO postal services are available.  Think Royal Mail for our forces, but channelled through Royal Mail in the first instance, then handled by the RAF.

What are the BFPO numbers for Afghanistan?

Your service person will now have provided you with their address, which will include on the bottom line (or second to bottom above the HERRICK number) one of the following numbers:  BFPO 715, BFPO 755, BFPO 758, BFPO 764, BFPO 772, BFPO 779, BFPO 792, BFPO 793, BFPO 795, BFPO 796 or BFPO 798.  Each one of these numbers is for a different place in Afghanistan.  Your service person may move during their tour of duty, but they will provide you with their new address as they will be given notice of it in advance.  Keep it safe, and don’t post it online where everyone can see it.  This goes for Facebook too!

What is a ‘Bluey’?

Blueys look like this.  You can get them for free from your local Post Office.  Stock up!

Blueys are forces air letters and are FREE to post to Afghanistan.  Simply write the address – exactly as your service person tells you to, on the front of the bluey and pop your own address on the back, write your message inside and send.  You can run them through printers to add pictures on, but you cannot put enclosures inside.

Can I send a normal letter, in a normal envelope? Do I need a stamp?

Yes, you can write a normal letter and yes you can pop it inside a normal envelope.  You can also add enclosures, so photographs, more pages etc.  You do not need a stamp, just write the address on the front and pop it into the post box.  If it is too large or heavy then it might need weighing and stamping at the post office, but it will still be free if it is under 2kg.

What is an e-bluey?

An e-bluey is the modern day equivalent of a telegram.  You write it on your computer, send it via the e-bluey website and it is printed out in the nearest printing machine to your service person, sealed in an envelope by that same machine (so that they are confidential) and sent to them straight away.  An e-bluey can get to your friend or family member in as little as a quarter of the time as a regular bluey.  Some people have even experienced a next-day service.  Register to send an e-bluey.

This is what they look like when they come out at the other end

I want to send a parcel to a BFPO address that is not Afghanistan (like Germany)

Click here for BFPO rates for non-frontline addresses  and click here for Special Delivery rates  for those times when you need your mail to be treated the same way as regular RM Special Delivery.

I want to send a parcel to Afghanistan.  How much must it weigh? 

Parcels must weigh under 2kg.  Anything – and I mean anything – over 2kg will result in you having to unpack, remove items and repack.  Your parcel will be free to post, but you cannot pay a fee for it if it is over, they will simply not accept it.

What can (and can’t) I send in my parcel?

Things offensive to Muslims (alcohol and pornography) are prohibited, as are aerosols and the usual prohibited items like explosives and weapons.  They have enough of those anyway, so I wouldn’t imagine you would want to send those out!  A selection of each parcel shipment is passed through scanners to check for prohibited items.

How big should my parcel be?

Shoebox size is universally accepted by family members to be about right, but it doesn’t really matter.  As long as you stick under the 2kg maximum weight you’ll be fine.  Buying a small pair of scales before they go on tour will save you the hassle of guessing the weight on your bathroom scales.

Help! I’m stuck for ideas for what to put in my parcel.

Enclosures they will have millions of, so save them for the ones living in the sticks

• Wet wipes
• Shower gel, shampoo, conditioner
• Moisturiser
• Deodorant (non aerosol)
• Toothpaste
• Cotton buds
• Pens
• Notebooks/diaries
• Batteries – these must be in their original sealed packet
• Sun cream (Summer tours only)
• Insect repellent with a heavy DEET presence (Summer tours only)
• Sanitary items for the ladies
• Snacks, crisps, sweets, tinned fruit etc

For the more personal parcels

• Joke presents.  There is nothing quite like the military sense of humour, and Ann Summers do a hilarious range sure to lift morale
• Blow-up furniture. This goes down very well – see also mini blow up paddling pools
• Travel games (travel scrabble, chess, cards etc.  Some websites will let you design your own playing cards)
• Photographs
• Magazines – Nuts, FHM, Zoo etc are out there already (provided for free) so be original in your choices
• Their favourite sweets, biscuits, popcorn, etc (chocolate is OK in Winter but melts in Summer)
• Savoury snacks like beef jerky, pepperami
• Foot soak for sore post-patrol feet, blistex
• Boxer shorts/pants for the girls
• Sports underwear (Underarmour do good stuff – see sports shops for ideas)
• Flags – they love these (whether favourite football team or country)
• Books
• Letters, or a note, or card
• Drink miniatures can be disguised using foil. Not that you would need to disguise non-alcoholic miniatures, of course…

Can I send perishable things, like cakes?

Only if they have a very long shelf life, as some mail can take three weeks or more to get to your recipient.

Where do I take it when I have finished sealing it?

To your local Post Office.  There it will be weighed and you will have to fill out a customs declaration sticker saying what is inside, and off it goes!  Ask your Post Office if you can take some customs declaration stickers home with you to save time.

I don’t know anyone serving in Afghanistan but I want to send a parcel out there to raise morale.  How do I do it?

The MOD request that people do not send generic half-addressed parcels, and at certain times of the year, Christmas especially, parcels sent by well-wishers clog the system for families of service members stopping eagerly anticipated mail getting to the frontline.  The RAF have a capacity that they can handle and too many really pushes them over their limit.  There may be soldiers in each unit who do not have families sending them parcels regularly, but this is quickly picked up on by their fellow troops whose own families send extra so that no one goes without.  The military is very good at looking after one another!

So you are saying I shouldn’t send a parcel?

No, if you really would like to send a parcel use Support Our Soldiers.  They are the only Ministry of Defence approved charity who send parcels out to individual service people who have registered their details on SOS’ database.  You won’t know who you are sending yours too, but if you are lucky you might get a thank you letter from the recipient, unless they are very busy of course!  You can also donate to the charity or send individual items.

Would it be better to send a letter if I do not know them?

Yes.  These raise morale far more than care packages, especially if you have an interesting story to tell.

What else can I do to raise morale?

Donate to ‘Beer for the Boys’ and buy a tired soldier a beer for their homecoming flight

74 Days That Changed My Life

The Falklands War began thirty years ago this year, on Friday April 2nd 1982 and ended on the 14th June of that same year.  We lost 255 servicemen to the conflict and 775 were physically wounded.  The Argentinians lost 649 servicemen in the war with an additional 1,068 wounded.  Many from both sides went on to experience severe psychological trauma as a result of what they had experienced.  Lots of television programmes, books and newspapers have documented stories from the war, yet many remain untold.  What was it like for those waiting at home?  Anne Cooke (now Richards) turned 21 in the second week of the Falklands War.  Anne waited whilst her friends, former colleagues, ex boyfriend and current partner went to war.  I am honoured to host her story.

 

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I had spoken to my boyfriend, David, on the ship-to-shore telephone that is rigged up when a ship is alongside in port.  He was off to Portsmouth for some exercises and would be there the following weekend if I wanted to talk to him.  I was going over to the Hockenheim circuit in West Germany to watch the first Formula 2 race of the season and catch up with some motor racing friends who I hadn’t seen since the previous season;  lots of winter gossip and car changes to catch up on!  I said I’d try to call him over the weekend.

I arrived in Germany on April Fool’s Day, Thursday 1 April 1982.  When I had settled into my hotel, I put in a call to Portsmouth Dockyard.  I asked to be put through to HMS ANTELOPE and they said that she wasn’t due in this week.  I tried to correct them(!) and said that I knew she was in over the weekend;  my boyfriend was serving on her.  They said she had been due in, but was now back in her homeport of Plymouth.  Strange, I thought, but sometimes plans are changed.  I telephoned Plymouth dockyard and went through the same process of getting put through to the ship.  I could hear the tannoy announcement summon David to the flight deck to take my call.  He was there in a couple of minutes and sounded a little excited as he said hello.  I asked why he wasn’t in Portsmouth but back in Plymouth.  “We’re off to war!” he exclaimed!  “What?”  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him properly.  “We’re at war with Argentina!  We’re off to war in the Falklands Islands!”  War?  Falkland Islands?  Argentina?  My mind was trying hard to process all of this.  I know the Argentinians had been exercising with the Royal Navy off Pembrokeshire in the early spring;  I was pretty sure that the Falkland Islands were part of the Faroes or something off Scotland;  and war?  That wasn’t something that was happening with Great Britain in my lifetime.  It took David about 20 minutes or so to explain it all to me and convince me that this wasn’t an April Fool!  My boyfriend was going to war.  It took a few hours for the news to sink in after we had finished our call;  and a few days to dawn on me what he might be sailing into.  I wished him all the luck in the world and sent him all my love.

I returned to England and back to work.  The BBC News was watched at 9 o’clock every evening, but nothing much seemed to be happening.  There was lots of diplomacy going on across the Atlantic;  maybe this would come to nothing and was just a show of strength?  Maybe the politicians would sort this one out?

Bits of news drifted back through the papers and television.  We had no internet; no email; no mobile phones.  We only had papers, television and occasional letters from the Task Force heading South (usually containing old news because of the time they took to reach home).  Our Task Force were gathering – buzz words started to appear:  Ascension Islands, Total Exclusion Zone, Galtieri, Malvinas, Port Stanley, Vulcan bombers, Exocets, South Georgia …

Then, on Sunday 2^nd May, the unthinkable happened.  One of our submarines had sunk The General Belgrano, one of the flagships of the Argentinian Fleet.  It was all so surreal.  This was war!  Real men were dying, drowning, being blown up.  Real men were making the decisions to fire live weapons.  This wasn’t an exercise.  This was real.  It took a while to get my head around it.  Britain seemed to be in a state of shock.  It seemed like a far off dream in a far off place;  people went to work on Monday morning and read the papers with dramatic pictures on the front pages.

Then on Tuesday evening, 4^th May, I went to Tottenham Court Road to meet up with a couple of friends who were at college and whom I hadn’t seen for a couple of years.  We’d arranged it a while ago and had finally managed to sort out an evening when we could all make it.

We sat in a sort of college common room – pool table, bar, television in the corner.  Then someone turned the television up … Ian McDonald, the serious-voiced Ministry of Defence spokesman, was announcing that HMS SHEFFIELD had been hit by an Exocet missile and badly damaged.  Then the television was turned down again;  conversations picked up where they had left off.  People were laughing, drinking beer, playing pool.  I was in a bubble.  Everything around me was muffled.  I knew people on HMS SHEFFIELD.  I knew the ship.  I’d seen her a couple of times.  I had plotted her throughout her Gulf tour on the charts for the Admirals’ Briefings when I was in the Royal Navy just a couple of months ago.  This wasn’t happening.  That’s one of OUR ships.  There are British sailors on board.  This was peacetime.

The next day or so was a haze, but every newspaper was scanned, every news bulletin listened to more intently, every snippet of overheard conversation on the train was analysed.  I needed more information, I needed to know where all my friends were, who was in the Total Exclusion Zone, who was on which ship, where my boyfriend was, where his brother was, what was going to happen.

I was working at a shipping company in the City of London, a job which I took on shortly after leaving the Navy in February.  Prior to leaving, my job had been to update the world charts with all our ships’ positions and aircraft flying zones so that the Admirals’ and senior officers were always up to date with our Royal Navy’s movements.  I had known, every six hours, where everyone in the Fleet was.  Now I knew nothing.  I had no information to calm my worried mind.  I imagined things that weren’t happening and I didn’t know about other things I wanted to know about.

Time passed and we knew that a landing on the Falkland Islands was the next step and that there would probably be battles to retake the Islands for the British.

I was sitting at home with my parents on Friday 21^st May – my Mother’s birthday – and we turned on the 9 o’clock news.  Ian McDonald came on with, “A Type 21 Frigate has been hit” – I burst into tears and my hand shot to cover my open mouth.  My boyfriend was on a Type 21 Frigate, but I knew there were several of them in the Task Force.  I silently begged the announcement to tell us which one, knowing that they wouldn’t release the name of the ship until several hours if not days later.  No news was instant.  Everything needed signals and confirmation.  Everything took an eternity.  I jumped up and grabbed my list of telephone numbers – I knew the main dockyard numbers for all the home ports, so I started with Plymouth, my boyfriend’s home port.  It was permanently engaged.  We didn’t have a ‘redial’ button on our telephone.  It was the old ‘dial’ phone with the Perspex circular dial with fingerholes in.  It took forever to dial any number.  I finally got through and managed to ask someone whether it was HMS ANTELOPE that had been hit.  I was told, “No.”  That was all I needed to know.  I replaced the handset and sank back into the chair sobbing with relief.  I had been so certain it was my boyfriend’s ship.  My stomach had churned to the point of sickness and my head was spinning.  I took a while to compose myself enough to go back into my parents and tell them it wasn’t David’s ship.  They look relieved for me.  Looking back, I can only imagine what it must have been like for them having me rush out of the room like that.

The next day, Saturday, seemed a pretty normal day and we did a bit of food shopping, some gardening, the normal things.  Sunday, too, was pretty much as usual.

Again, gathering around the news on Sunday evening, 23^rd May, another announcement with Ian McDonald:  “Another Frigate has been hit.”  Again, I dashed for the phone.  Frantic dialling and redialling began again … I lost track of how many times I tried.  The pit of my stomach felt so sick.  Plymouth telephones were jammed.  I kept trying.  I couldn’t get through, so I tried Portsmouth in desperation.  I tried again and again.  I was incredibly lucky to finally get through to the information desk in the dockyard.  “Are you a next of kin?”  I said no, I was a girlfriend.  “I’m sorry, but we can only give out information to the next of kin.”  I asked if it was the ANTELOPE that had been hit?  “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to give out that information.”  Could they just tell me whether my boyfriend is dead or alive, injured or okay?  “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to give out that information.”  Call it fate or luck, but the person who answered the phone was a sailor who was actually part of HMS ANTELOPE’s ship’s company – my boyfriend’s ship!  He had been injured during a football game just before they sailed in April and had been unable to sail with his mates;  he was put on the information desk while the ship was away.  I suppose because I had mentioned the ANTELOPE, he asked who I wanted to know about.  I said David Trish, Dave Trish, radar operator.  He knew David and said, “I’m not meant to tell you anything, but I will tell you that he isn’t on any casualty lists.”

Again, the relief was indescribable.  I don’t really remember much more of that evening, it was just a blur.

Monday morning, 24^th May, I went off to work as usual – train to Blackfriars, tube to Tower Hill, walk to Mansel Street, up several flights of stairs to the office.  As I remember, it was a pretty normal day.  I wasn’t dwelling too much on the South Atlantic because I’d been told David wasn’t on any list.  My Mother telephoned me in the office at around lunchtime.  She never called.  I remember her saying that she had just heard it announced in Parliament that it was HMS ANTELOPE that had been hit and that it was now sinking.  I was struck dumb again.  No-one in my office had military connections;  no-one knew what I was going through on a daily basis.  A bizarre mix of normal life, unreality, surrealism, fear, worry, anxiety, wandering thoughts, lack of concentration, my mind completely somewhere other than with my body.  I took myself out of the office to the Ladies’ toilets and had a quiet cry.  I knew David wasn’t injured but didn’t know what he’d seen.  His brother was serving on HMS HERMES – would he have been told?  I composed myself (again) and returned to my desk.  I told my boss what had happened and asked if I could make a personal call.  I telephoned David’s Mother and asked her what she knew.  She knew no more than the papers, although she had managed to get through to one of the dockyards and found out that David was alive and uninjured and all the crew had been transferred to other ships in the Fleet.

I left work that evening and saw the spectacular photographs on the front page of the Evening Standard showing HMS ANTELOPE’s magazines exploding against the night skies like a vast firework – incredibly dramatic and, even then, fairly iconic.  I’m not sure how I got home.  I think I was on auto-pilot and don’t really remember that evening.

Little did I know then what a week it was going to be.  The next day, Tuesday 25^th May, we lost HMS COVENTRY and the ATLANTIC CONVEYOR – carrying vital Chinooks and other aircraft to support our troops.  I wasn’t really able to process all the numbers and casualties … none of it seemed real.  It was all too much in too short a space of time.

And then we had the first land battle – Goose Green – on Friday 28^th May.  We heard fairly shortly afterwards that Lt Col ‘H’ Jones had been killed.

I went off to work as usual on the Monday morning but days were becoming muddled and I wasn’t really aware of which day of the week it was.  I remember being in the office on either the Tuesday or the Wednesday (1^st or 2^nd of June) and opening up the Sun newspaper to read the casualty lists.  There was a list of everyone killed so far on the ships and in the air, and also at Goose Green.  I read the names and one jumped back at me.  Lt Richard James Nunn Royal Marines.  Well, I had dated a chap called Dick Nunn when he was on the Lieutenants’ Course at Greenwich in 1979/80 and, although no longer boyfriend/girlfriend, we had kept in touch as friends.  Hang on!  Dick is short for Richard.  No, it can’t be.  Dick was a Lieutenant, yes.  He was a Royal Marine, yes.  He flew helicopters, yes.  Richard Nunn, Dick Nunn?  Oh my god!  It must be him.  I looked again and again.  It was like kitchen towel soaking up a spillage … it was slowly sinking in, against everything I prayed for, that it was Dick, it was my ex-boyfriend, it was my friend.  Someone I cared about and shared things with had been killed.

My life changed.

I was inextricably linked to the Falklands War by that one week in May – a Friday to a Friday – a week in which so many lives and friends had been lost.  My world was devastated.  I crumbled and burst into tears.  My boss sent me home.  I couldn’t think straight or put one foot in front of the other properly.  I just managed somehow to get home.

I really don’t remember much chronology or detail of the following two weeks.

I remember the different battles, the different regiments and ships and aircraft.

I remember seeing my ex-boyfriend, Richard Nunn, buried with such dignity, ceremony, care and love in his silver body bag in a wet, muddy grave with his Parachute Regiment colleagues after the Battle of Goose Green.  I remember the service that was conducted by David Cooper.

I remember hearing that David’s brother, Andy, had only found out just before David was due home that he was indeed alive and well after the sinking of the ANTELOPE – he didn’t want to bother anyone and assumed they would tell him when they were ready.  ‘They’ (those senior to Andy) in turn thought Andy would have asked if he hadn’t already had the news.  He found out through a letter from home that his brother was due into Southampton on the QEII.

My boyfriend David sailed into Southampton docks on Friday 11^th June, the QEII had been delayed, originally due to arrive on the 6th.  I met up with David’s parents and his family and we were taken to a large shed alongside the jetty.  The public were on the dockside, but we were together – ANTELOPE, ARDENT and COVENTRY – three ships’ companies’ families waiting for their men to come home;  knowing that some of those crews were never coming home.  We watched through the cracks in the doors of the vast shed as the tug came into view;  we watched as the enormous bow of the QEII came into view;  we watched as Capt David Hart-Dyke, commanding officer of HMS COVENTRY, was the first to come through to be greeted by his wife and daughters.  I shall never forget the burns to his face, the look in his eyes, the fear in the eyes of his wife, not knowing whether to hug her husband would hurt him, whether he had burns and injuries hidden from view.  Then the men came through to meet their loved ones … you could touch the emotion, feel the relief, understand the pain.  All three ships had lost shipmates, colleagues, young lives ripped from their families.  So relieved to have them home, but so sad for their losses.

David came through with just the clothes he stood up in.  Everything else was at the bottom of San Carlos Waters, Bomb Alley.  His brother was still “down South” on HMS HERMES and the war was still going on.

We drove to see David’s sister’s family in Poole, then drove north to Liverpool, to Bootle, to David’s home.  Big banners and flags welcomed him home and remember the feeling of him being completely overwhelmed.  We wanted to show him how happy we were that he was home and safe, but he told us he could never celebrate so long as the war for still going and his brother was still at sea in that war.  I hadn’t really thought of that.

I stayed with his family for a couple of days … we watched the disaster at Bluff Cove unfold – Sir Tristram and Sir Galahad, unforgettable images.

I returned home on the train and went back to work.  I was feeling less and less like working, less and less motivated, more and more drained.  It seemed ‘wrong’ to be working and being ‘normal’ while people I knew were dying, being injured, losing limbs, being burnt.  The Falklands was now my reality, not London and commuting and eating supper at the normal time.

Then I remember the news on Monday 14^th June:  “There’s a white flag flying over Stanley! Bloody marvellous!”  I looked at my Mother and said “It’s over!”  It’s impossible to describe the relief when you know there will be no more killing, no more waiting for news, no more pain.

I remember hearing that Dick’s brother, Chris Nunn – also a Royal Marine – had read about his own brother’s death in the casualty lists;  he had not been personally informed.

In the days, weeks, months and years to come, I realised there were different kinds of pain – shellshock (which became combat stress, which became PTSD and which has finally been recognised and is beginning to be addressed and people helped), bereavement, not having a funeral, long-term fear of talking about experiences, constant nightmares and dreams, and many other forms.

We have learnt many lessons from the Falklands and other wars and conflicts.  And we now have email, the internet, instant news from around the world, reporters embedded with the troops, mobile phones, Skype.  We don’t have to wait for news – we know any news will be with the people that need it within 24 hours, usually sooner.  We see pictures and film, we have footage of our troops in combat, at work, we have documentaries about them and their role while the conflict is still progressing.  The world has changed.  The results of combat, sadly, have not.

I will leave it for David and his family and for Richard’s family to tell their stories;  but I have learnt compassion, understanding, empathy and sympathy through my experiences.  I have learnt not to judge, to value life, to enjoy the simple pleasures and the process of aging and growing older and hopefully wiser.  I value my children, I value the life I’ve had when others have not been able to have that long life.  And I can now look back and smile at some happy memories as well as never forgetting the dark days and the passing of many friends and fine, strong, young men.

We Will Remember Them x

Lt Richard J Nunn was posthumously awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for the bravery and skill he displayed during the operation that cost him his life.

Anne Richards is a devoted supporter of both ABF the Soldiers’ Charity and The Royal Marines Charitable Trust Fund and created the Facebook support groups for 3 Commando Brigade, 40, 42, 45 and 30 Commando and CHF, CLR and CTC RM.

Goodbye Again

You set a time to leave but then stayed an extra hour, both conscious that the deadline had slipped neither dared mention it for fear of breaking the indulgent spell those extra few minutes together cast above us.  The sands of time at last ran thin and with reluctance you picked up your kit bags and made for the door.  Silently we stood, disconsolate in our powerlessness to resolve our hearts’ desire and perfectly incapable of preventing the inevitable from happening.  The pain of leaving brought a tired frown across the forehead of a man who strives to control his fate frustrated by a situation out of his hands.  Pulling me close into your thick outdoor coat you moaned that you did not want to go, and as you withdrew to leave I tried to conceal my own sadness by looking at the floor, an instant mistake as gravity took charge and dragged the tear down my cheek that you were never supposed to see.  Kissing it away you were suddenly gone, and I went back to sitting on the settee, utterly oblivious to the fact that the television was on mute as my mind swam against a tide of icy numbness.

Then, as if by the magic of telepathy my mobile cut sharply through a wash cycle of thoughts and your outrageously bad singing voice produced a wide smile and more tears to sting my eyes.  Snapped back into reality with a bang, I was instantly reminded that we had been here so many times before and so many more again were yet to come, I knew in that moment we would be just fine.  Experience replaces telepathy, resigned smiles replace disappointed tears and goodbyes only last so long.

The joy of meeting pays the pangs of absence; else who could bear it? - Nicholas Rowe

Taking the Military out of Military Relationships

I don’t like being a military partner. It is shit.  If I had known how shit it was going to be, I would never have taken his phone number.  It has put a lid on all my dreams, dreams of spending my early twenties working abroad in more temperate climes.  Instead of sunbathing after work in paradise and learning to scuba dive, I am saving to put a deposit down on a house right next to his place of work in rainy Britain.  I have also had to tailor my career path slightly to suit our life together, despite his unwavering support and encouragement.  We could not be together if I had not done these things, and I am happy to do them as he is worth it.  The reason I started writing in the first place was due to how intolerably shit I found the entire experience, and to my great surprise I instantly received a flood of emails from women screaming “YES! I find it shit too! I hate it, I really love my partner but my God, I hate it!”  That’s quite a lot of stress on an otherwise great relationship.

Annual divorce rates in the Army vary around the 2% mark for married couples, and for the British public they hover around the 1% mark.  Though these figures seem small they are the reason that you will often hear the fact quoted that being in an Army marriage doubles your chance of divorce, because the divorce rate is twice as high.

Just after the Iraq war commenced and soldiers were facing tour upon tour of Iraq, or Iraq and Afghanistan combined, divorce rates in the army shot up.  Contrary to the idiom absence does not, in fact, make the heart grow fonder when it is prolonged, it exacerbates existing problems between the two of you and creates wounds only the strongest of partnerships can heal.

What are the ingredients for the perfect relationship?  It does not matter whether you are military or civilian, but there are a couple that need concentrating on for military couples a little more than civilian.  Lucky – or unlucky – enough to witness my parents struggle with their own problems I grew up with my own list of relationship must haves (or was it that my mother repeated them to me until she was blue in the face? “Don’t make the same mistakes I did darling…”)

Friendship.  If you don’t have this you don’t have anything.  If the person you are with isn’t the sort of person you can talk to for hours about literally everything and will genuinely listen and share, then you are on a losing streak from day one.

Trust.  This is a biggy.  He has to trust you, you have to trust him.  You will not be able to know what he is up to so you need to absolutely be able to leave him to get on with it.   If you get a sinking feeling in your stomach when he says he’s off for some beers with the boys during a training exercise then that is something you need to address.  If you are the sort of person who harasses his or her other half with text messages every waking minute that you are apart, you need to opt out.  It works the other way around too, if he bothers you when he is away and wants to know where you are and who you are with all the time then the situation needs to be reassessed.  Controlling and bullying behaviour is emotional abuse whether it is in a military relationship or in a civilian one.

That’s not to say infidelity or a rough patch need cause the end of a relationship, and counselling for serving Army families can be provided by the Army Welfare Service through your Unit Welfare Officer.  I’m sure there are RAF and Naval equivalents so please feel free to add them in the comments section team!

Laughter.  This is what should be left when everything else runs out.  Laughter is so, so important.  The strongest longest marriages I have had the pleasure of witnessing are always those who laugh together, at and with one another

Lust.  Doesn’t hurt to fancy the pants off each other, right?

Compatibility.  Opposites attract.  If the pair of you are both fiery alpha characters then together you will have passion and fireworks galore, to the detriment of harmony.  Similarly if you are both quieter and more submissive you are likely to find friction easily.  It’s not about whether he likes the same sports or music as you, or that he loves being outdoors when you are more of a library person.  That stuff really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

Consideration.  Another emphasised one in military life, if he has to sit down and pre-order flowers for certain calendar dates so that he doesn’t forget before an emergency op or exercise away then so be it, but you need to be made to feel special, and that permanently waiting for him is worth it.  You have given up a lot to be with him, and sometimes they are guilty of forgetting that and taking you for granted.  It’s those little things that count, like hiding notes in his kit bag for him to find later, or in the sun visor of his car.

Commitment, energy, drive.  Relationships don’t just ‘exist’ by themselves, they require work, a LOT of work, and this is no different whether your partner is a brickie or a submariner.

What makes me sad is the amount of military relationships I see that lack all of the above, yet carry on because of the military benefits being married brings, and perhaps because they don’t know how to get out of their situation.  I know you are nodding as you read – we all know people like this, they seem to be everywhere.  They are everywhere in civilian life too.  Incompatible, turbulent and frankly ridiculous couples holding onto their marriage for no explicable reason.   Domestic violence and emotional abuse are found in the forces just as frequently as they are outside of the wire, except it is perceived that military couples stay together for longer because the regular separation provides breathing space.  Again you will all nod and roll your eyes in recognition when I mention those wives who greet the day their partner departs for exercise or tour with utmost glee.

Those couples struggle the hardest when retirement or redundancy removes the serving member of the relationship from the forces and lands them at home.  A friend of mine who works for a big military charity in a garrison town remarked once that in her personal experience nearly half of the couples separated or divorced within a couple of years of the service person leaving.  If you can’t imagine life with your partner 24/7 now and look forward to the next time he goes away so that it gives you a break, how are you going to cope when he is with you at home for good?

There is no perfect couple, because no one is perfect.  There are only those who are better suited than others.

Marriage is a wonderful institution, but who would want to live in an institution?
- H. L. Mencken

There are four stages in a marriage. First there’s the affair, then the marriage, then children and finally the fourth stage, without which you cannot know a woman, the divorce.
- Norman Mailer

It is far better to be alone, than to be in bad company.
- George Washington

I will leave you with my personal favourite….

What is irritating about love is that it is a crime that requires an accomplice.
- Charles Baudelaire