Preparation week : T minus seven days or so….

And so it begins again. Another tour of Afghanistan for him, another six months of worry, tears, copious cigarette smoking, paranoia and moaning for me.

So let me introduce myself. I’m Mrs Marine – or nearly. Mr Marine proposed on my birthday last year, and we’re planning the wedding for next summer, after he gets back from Afghanistan. All planning in my life seems to run to the schedule of the Royal Marines – even the wedding. We’re having it in August, because that’s when he gets his summer leave. Mr Marine doesn’t get time off for inconsequential things like weddings – not even his own it seems. So August it is.

I have an ordinary job in the much-maligned field of ‘communications’. You know – communications - the department at work where you’re not really sure what they do, but you’re pretty sure they fanny about with Twitter and produce the occasional leaflet and press release? Well that’s the department I work in.      

Mr Marine is, well, a Marine. A Royal Marine Commando to be precise. He’s handsome and irritatingly charming, an unashamed flirt, and can get out of any awkward situation with a joke or a silly voice. I’ll give you an example. The other weekend he got out of bed in the middle of the night for a pee. When he got back into bed I caught him wiping himself on the duvet. “Did you just wipe your cock on the duvet ?”  said I, outraged. “Whaaaat?” he said, with a little smirk on his face “…it’s not like we’ve got any curtains.” Bastard. He managed to make it sound like both a justification and an accusation that I hadn’t got round to replacing the roller blind with curtains yet. I couldn’t help but laugh. A clever strategy when I was about to hit him over the head with the table lamp…

But back to preparations. He has about a week to go until he flies out with his unit to Afghanistan. I say ‘about a week’ because I don’t really know, and nor does he. Suffice to say it’s so close that my stomach is shrinking into a tight little knot that won’t loosen until he comes back for good, at some point in October. 

Last weekend he brought all his kit home to sort and service.  Huge bags of stuff in various shades of murky camouflage, and a three page tightly typed list of gear that he needs to take with him. This time the majority of stuff he needs has been provided – not like last time.  Before his last tour he spent hundreds of pounds on kit to take out with him, including a pair of boots because the standard issue ones were melting in the heat. A roll mat because the issued ones were only half length, which meant he would have to sleep with his legs in the sand. A head torch because the issued ones didn’t have a red filter – essential if you don’t want to give away your position. Binoculars and a GPS, because these potentially lifesaving bits of kit weren’t issued at all.  The quality and quantity of the kit seems to have improved a lot since then, although the roll mats are still half length, much to Mr Marine’s annoyance.

He also brought home a pile of shirts and an even bigger pile of badges for me to sew on to them – the ‘Royal Marine Commando’ shoulder flashes and the commando dagger badge which goes on the upper sleeve – and a smelly heap of his mate’s washing. Needless to say the mate’s washing didn’t get done. I have my fucking limits.

His preparation back at the barracks included writing his own eulogy (they are all required to do this), and having what they pragmatically refer to as a ‘Death Phot’ taken. I’m not sure that the CO is entirely up to date with current motivational theory…

My own preparations include regular sessions of panic, complemented by secret sobbing sessions and waking up every few hours throughout the night.

In a fit of being positive I have also joined a gym (and paid for it for the whole year), started a diet and booked a holiday. I’ve also rashly arranged a ‘bon voyage’ party for this weekend. Sounds jolly doesn’t it? A bon voyage party…It’s a bit disingenuous, but a  ‘please don’t get hurt in Afghanistan because we love you’ party was perhaps a bit too much of a mouthful…

Perhaps if I get any readers I’ll update next week with how it goes.

TTFN

Mrs Marine