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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.