Wherever You Are: The Military Wives: Our true stories of heartbreak, hope and love

I was jubilant. It was a magic moment. We waited a couple of months, because I knew he needed time to recover, and then our son Freddie was born the following year.

People don’t realise that a six- or seven-month tour lasts, for us, for over a year. For six months before they go they are training hard; then when they come back they have to readjust, which also takes time. It’s hard. During the training it’s a real struggle for me: half of me wants to know what he’s preparing for; the other half wants to blank it out. He has the ability to shut off: I don’t know whether that’s his personality or whether it is something he has been trained to do. But I feel he has to stay open in order to stay close to me, and we are better at it now than we were. But I have to face the fact that, as the training goes on, in his head he is more and more out there.

I’m glad he is so well prepared, mentally and emotionally. But that doesn’t make it easier for me. It makes for a high-pressure marriage. The pre-training is very intense. In his first tour of Afghan he was in a specialist team, and it was important that they became a tight team before they left. There was no gentle progression: he was deep in it from the start of training. I tried to talk to him as much as I could, but I struggled not to feel excluded.

We say goodbye at home – he won’t do it in public, and I’m glad about that. If he is going to feel choked up, he wants to do it away from the lads, in private. That first tour of Afghan was really bad. I can’t hold it in when he leaves. I blub. Just talking about it now I can feel it: that choked-up sensation half in my chest and half in my stomach. I try to hold it back, but it’s like having terrible stomach cramps. Then he’ll say something and it’ll set me off. The last kiss goodbye is the longest kiss ever: you don’t want it to end.

When he did that first Afghan tour, the one when he was injured, Freddie fell asleep on my lap a few hours before Andrew left, and as Andrew carried him upstairs without waking him, I couldn’t stop myself thinking: This could be the last time he holds Freddie. I didn’t want to think it, but terrible thoughts like that just come into your head; you can’t stop them. I knew, anyway, that it was the last time he would hold Freddie for six months, and that when he came back Freddie would have changed so much. That was a gut-wrenching feeling.

He’s upset to leave us. But I can see, when he walks away, that he’s excited to be going; he’s pleased to be joining the lads and putting all his training to use. With maturity, I’ve come to realise that I’m glad he’s up for it, and it would be a lot worse for him if he was worrying about me and Freddie and home. A few years ago I’d never have dreamt I’d be saying I’m pleased he’s excited to go, but I am.

When he went to Afghanistan for his second tour, Freddie was five, just becoming aware of his daddy’s job. I never said the words ‘Afghanistan’ or ‘fighting’ in his hearing. I just told him, ‘Daddy’s doing lots of marching,’ because he’s seen them marching. Then, before Andrew went, we told Freddie that Daddy had to do SSM – a Super Special Mission – which only Daddy could do. Whenever I had a tough time with him missing his dad, I reinforced that Daddy was the only one who could do this SSM. I kept ringing the changes, saying that Daddy was doing some camping: I fixed on harmless elements of the job.

When he finally walks out I’m devastated, with nothing to look forward to except getting through. It feels as if my right arm has been cut off. The bed feels very empty, even though I am used to him being away. It’s always different when he is at war.

R & R is a strange time. I’m more used to it now, but on his first tour it was tough. He was here in body but not in mind. It was as if a video was playing behind his eyes all the time, as if he was looking at me but seeing something else. I was so glad to see him, touch him. But I struggled with trying to cuddle a man who was not there. I wasn’t prepared for it; I hadn’t thought through what it would be like for him, and how, in a way, his head had to stay out there. Now I know what to expect, and I’m glad if he stays out there in his head, because he has to go back.

Over the years I’ve got used to living in married quarters. I was thrilled with our first little flat, just because we were living together. Then I loved the house at Taunton. I painted a seascape on the bathroom wall, with sand and water, and ceramic plaques of starfish, crabs and a whale. I painted a wave that ran right round the room, and I sponged bubbles on to the wall of the downstairs loo.

But when you leave a quarter you have to put it back the way it was. You are inspected: it’s called the march out. They do a full inspection and write a report, telling you everything that has to be done. If you don’t do it, you have to pay for it. It took about eight coats of magnolia paint to cover my seascape. Cleverly, the men are never around when you have to repaint it … I thought then: I’m never doing that again. So now I have the decor in my things – pictures, photos, furniture and furnishings. I don’t paint the walls.

Andrew is now a colour sergeant. I’ve been with him all the way as he has been promoted. We moved to Chivenor in Devon in the winter, and it was hard to meet people, as everyone went everywhere in their cars. Freddie was in pre-school, but the other mums all seemed to have their friends. They didn’t ignore me, but I just didn’t crack it. The first couple of months here I felt I went backwards in my progression as a military wife. I kept thinking, Bring on Christmas, so that I could go home to my family. But it got better, especially after the choir started.

Sarah Hendry

I’m a tough Yorkshire girl, and we don’t cry. I’ve not been brought up that way. I don’t do emotional stuff. But when I dropped David off for his first Afghan tour and I tried to say goodbye, I went into the biggest meltdown ever. The kids were in the back of the car, with a blanket over them, sleeping. He kissed them and I got out of the car, still OK. Then I was suddenly in floods of tears, sobbing to the point where I couldn’t catch my breath.

He gave me a hug and said, ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘I can’t stop,’ I said, struggling to speak.

‘You have to. I’m going to have to walk away.’

‘Just go.’

I was crying so much I could only see him as a blur as he got on the coach. Then I bent down at the back of the car because I didn’t want the kids to see me, and I cried myself out. After a couple of minutes I gathered myself together and drove home. Then it was, ‘Come on, boys, you’re in Mummy’s bed tonight.’

I’d been waiting for him to go, and I was sure I’d be all right, because I’m so stern and strong, but I just lost it. When he rang from transit I couldn’t apologise enough – I felt I’d let him down. It must have been the worst goodbye ever, and it was his first time to Afghan. I felt ashamed that I’d let him go worrying about me.

He’s been to Afghan twice since, and I’ve got the hang of it now. I drop him off and say, ‘See you – ring me when you get the chance.’

He knows I can cope, and I know it’s important for him not to have to worry about us. It’s not that it’s easier: I’m just better at holding it all in.

The boys are now old enough to understand a bit of what’s happening, so it wouldn’t do them any good to see me in a state. Crying doesn’t make the tour go faster: you just have to get on with it.

On that first tour to Afghan Owen, who was three at the time, wouldn’t speak to his daddy on the phone. It didn’t matter what I did to coax him: he just wouldn’t speak. But he would draw pictures for him.

We were thrilled that David had managed to get his R & R over Christmas: we thought it would be great for the children. I built myself up for it, getting really excited. But then we all caught some horrible vomiting bug. We were being sick, all of us, the whole time. We didn’t even have Christmas dinner. When he went back to Brize Norton the flight was delayed, and the other lads were sent home for another night with their families. But he was vomiting so much they kept him there. He had to be injected with an anti-vomiting drug before he could get on the flight to go back to Afghan. So that was our wonderful R & R.

Now I say to him, ‘Don’t bother with Christmas. See if you can get back for half term. Otherwise, just leave it as late as possible.’ If it’s delayed, you don’t get extra time at the end. It’s rubbish, but I’m a veteran and I don’t wind myself up thinking about it. That’s how it happens. Don’t worry.

When I first met David and he told me what he did, I said, ‘What the hell is a Royal Marine?’ I’d heard of the army, navy and air force, but I’d never heard of the marines. When I told my mum I was going out with him she said, ‘It’s not like Soldier Soldier, you know.’

My family were worried because when I met him I was 16, and he was eight years older than me and in the armed forces. We met because my best friend from school was dating his brother, and I was invited to a party David’s mum threw to celebrate his passing out into the marines, in Sheffield where we are both from.

We’ve been together for over 14 years now and married over 12, so we’ve proved everyone wrong. But I think for the first two years, when I lived in Sheffield and he came down at weekends, out of the whole of that time we spent less than five months together.

I was pregnant when we got married, in Christmas week. We got married on 27 December 1999, when I was 18, so it was a crazy week – Christmas, the wedding, then the millennium. We moved down to Gosport on 2 January, and then I had Callum in May.

At first he was away one week every month and I’d go back to Sheffield then, getting a bus to the ferry, the ferry to Portsmouth, a bus to the station and then three trains to Sheffield. I didn’t have a friend in Gosport, and I didn’t know how to meet anyone. Most of the people living near us were in the navy, not the marines, so David couldn’t introduce me to anyone, and they didn’t make an effort to befriend me. It was all right when he was coming home at night, but when he was away for a whole week I couldn’t stand the loneliness.

I was glad we went to Gosport, because until four weeks before our wedding I thought I was going up to Arbroath in Scotland, where David was posted at the time. Every time I’d visited him up there the weather had been atrocious. Coming from Sheffield, I’m used to bad weather, but that was something else. So when he was posted to Gosport it was a relief. We didn’t see the flat until after the wedding and I wanted to cry when we walked in. I was pregnant and hormonal, which made it all seem worse. The walls were covered in woodchip wallpaper, which had been patched in places with different kinds of woodchip. There was some awful 70s furniture. There was a little serving hatch between the kitchen and the dining area and I thought: I’ve seen that on TV sitcoms set in the 1950s.

I’d made our house in Sheffield really homely, and this seemed terrible. I knew nobody, and I hated the quarter. I didn’t know the rules: I thought I couldn’t even put pictures on the walls. But once I found out I could change the hideous curtains and get all our own stuff in, it looked better.

When we leave a place I always scrub it from top to bottom and leave it spotless, and then move into one that’s disgusting, so I have to start scrubbing again. That’s something you hear from wives all the time and I can’t understand how some people can get away with leaving the houses in such a poor state, because it’s inspected when we move out.

Looking back, my introduction to being a military wife was a horrible time, and I think now: How the hell did I do that? Luckily, it’s got better ever since, and I can drive now. Our next move was to Plymouth, then to Bordon for a year, which wasn’t a lot better than Gosport; then we went to Lympstone, where we had a lovely house in Exmouth. I’d go back there in a heartbeat. Owen, my second child, was born there, a home delivery with the same midwife I’d had all the way through my pregnancy – a lovely experience. After that it was Chivenor, briefly, and then back to Bordon again. You get completely used to packing everything up and starting again in a new house, finding new schools and nurseries.

We write to him all the time. When he was on his second tour I worked opposite the Hive, so I could pop in every day and fax blueys. I wrote in bed every night with a cup of tea. The blueys were more a diary of what we’d been doing than love letters. On his first two tours out there I sent a letter every day, and on his third tour I did e-blueys, which are good because you can send photos. I always send one or two parcels a week, mostly with sachets of hot chocolate and cappuccinos, and lots of munchies. He lets me know when he needs toiletries. The kids send their paintings, and he decorates the wall behind his bed with their drawings and photos.

During his second tour of Afghan his nan died, but there was no way to get him home for the funeral, as she wasn’t a close enough relative. I went to the funeral. I didn’t tell him how much his nan had suffered at the end, because he couldn’t be here and it wouldn’t have helped him to know. On the same tour his nephew was born, so that was great news and we could send lots of pictures. It’s good to have something positive from home.

That was the tour when there was a change of public mood towards the troops out there. I think it was because everyone became aware that children were being used as suicide bombers, after there was a terrible story of a little boy blowing himself up. During his first tour, our involvement in Afghan was frowned on: people didn’t approve of it at all, they were against the decision to go there and we were associated with that. But after that second tour, the mood of the whole nation changed, and there was a big ‘welcome home’ march through Barnstaple. I felt so proud. I’m always proud of him, but it was great to be able to show it in public, and see thousands of people cheering the lads.

The second tour was not an issue with the children. They both missed their dad but they weren’t difficult. But the third tour was bad because Callum was ten, and much more media aware. He had a recurring nightmare, and he’d wake up crying. When I went to him he’d say: ‘I keep having horrible thoughts.’ I’d hold him and he’d tell me he’d dreamt that two men came to the door to tell him that his daddy was dead. It broke my heart. All I could do was reassure him that it was only a bad dream. I told him that Daddy’s job was just fixing vehicles, and that he didn’t go anywhere dangerous. It wasn’t true: David was on difficult and dangerous convoys. But I needed to get Callum through and I wanted him to sleep. I just held him and comforted him as much as I could.

I make a point of planning a holiday abroad for David’s POTL. He needs to relax, and so do I. We need to be a family, without school, housework or mates around. It’s good for him to have fun with the kids. If we stay at home he doesn’t want to tell them off when they’re out of line, because he’s been away, so it’s difficult. And he feels he should be doing stuff around the house, helping me, not just taking it easy. On holiday, we get back to being us. His mum comes, and she looks after the kids to give us a bit of time together.

I’m lucky, because he’s very laid-back, so there aren’t emotional or mental problems when he gets back. He just looks a bit odd: he’s mucky, smelly, hairy and a funny colour.

When he’s away, it’s as if your whole life is on pause. You don’t even like to go out and have fun: it feels wrong while he’s out there, as though you are betraying him in some way. But you can’t spend a whole tour sitting by the telephone. As soon as the kids were old enough, I found a job. I can’t imagine sitting around all day; I like to keep busy. When we were in Bordon I worked in a home with adults with learning and physical disabilities, and I loved it. A year later we were on the move again, back to Chivenor. We’ve been here now for seven years, which for a military wife is fantastic. I haven’t had to pack my home up for ages, but I know we’ll be on the move again soon, first to Plymouth and then possibly back to Bordon. I’m not looking forward to leaving all my friends, but I already know loads of the girls in Plymouth.

I’d heard so many bad stories about Chivenor being unfriendly and isolated. But we moved in the summer, which makes a big difference. When the sun shines, everything looks good, and there are great beaches and great walks. I thought: What the hell’s wrong with everybody? This is a really good place.

I guess if you move in winter it’s different. And I’m lucky because I’ve got a great job as the deputy manager of the local nursery. We’ve made the tough decision to put the boys into boarding school, because of the moves that are coming up. It’s important for them to have continuity of education, so that they keep the same friends all the way through school, and they don’t have the disruption of packing up and moving. Callum loves it, and Owen is joining him at the same school. It’s me that misses them; they’re really happy. It’s a decision you have to face. We get a lot of help with the fees, and we’ve decided it’s better for the boys. For me it means that every time David, who will soon be a sergeant, moves, I’ll go with him.

The choir has been one of the best things ever, for me: I know that if he goes away again, I’ll have the choir to support me.

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