“Oh, you’re off. When are you coming back?” was the most she would ever ask. But this time it was different. For once, she knew where I was going.

As she drove me through the darkness towards camp, I said, “Why don’t you get yourself that dog you were on about? It would be company for you.”

I’d meant well, but it set off the tears again. I got her to drop me off a little way from the main gates.

“I’ll walk from here, mate,” I said with a strained smile. “I need the exercise.”

“See you when I see you,” she said as she pecked me on the cheek.

Neither of us went a bundle on long goodbyes.

The first thing that hits you when you enter squadron lines (the camp accommodation area) is the noise: vehicles revving, men hollering for the return of bits of kit, and from every bedroom in the unmarried quarters a different kind of music-on maximum watts. This time it was all so much louder because so many of us were being sent out together.

I met up with Dinger, Mark the Kiwi, and Stan, the other three members of my gang. A few of the unfortunates who weren’t going to the Gulf still came in anyway and joined in the slagging and blaggarding.

We loaded our kit into cars and drove up to the top end of the camp where transports were waiting to take us to Brize Norton. As usual, I took my sleeping bag onto the aircraft with me, together with my Walkman, washing and shaving kit, and brew kit. Dinger took 200 Benson amp; Hedges. If we found ourselves dumped in the middle of nowhere or hanging around a deserted airfield for days on end, it wouldn’t be the first time.

We flew out by R.A.F VC10. I passively smoked the twenty or so cigarettes that Dinger got through in the course of the seven-hour flight, honking at him all the while. As usual my complaints had no effect whatsoever. He was excellent company, however, despite his filthy habit. Originally with Para Reg, Dinger was a veteran of the Falklands.