I wrote four and entrusted them to a mate called Eno. There was one for my parents that said: “Thanks for looking after me; it can’t have been easy for you, but I had a rather nice childhood. Don’t worry about me being dead, it’s one of those things.” One was for Jilly, saying: “Don’t mope around-get the money and have a good time. PS 500 pounds is to go behind the bar at the next squadron piss-up. PPSI love you.” And there was one for little Kate, to be given to her by Eno when she was older, and it said: “I always loved you, and always will love you.” The letter to Eno himself, who was to be the executor of my will, said: “Fuck this one up, wanker, and I’ll come back and haunt you.”

At about 1900 one evening, I and another team commander, Vince, were called over to the squadron OC’s table. He was having a brew with the squadron sergeant major.

“We’ve got a task for you,” he said, handing us a mug each of tea.

“You’ll be working together. Andy will command. Vince will be 2 i/c. The briefing will be tomorrow morning at 0800-meet me here. Make sure your people are informed. There will be no move before two days.”

My lot were rather pleased at the news. Quite, apart from anything else, it meant an end to the hassle of having to queue for the only two available sinks and bogs. In the field, the smell of clean clothes or bodies can disturb the wildlife and in turn compromise your position, so for the last few days before you go you stop washing and make sure all your clothing is used.

The blokes dispersed, and I went to watch the latest news on CNN. Scud missiles had fallen on Tel Aviv, injuring at least twenty-four civilians. Residential areas had taken direct hits, and as I looked at the footage of tower blocks and children in their pajamas, I was suddenly reminded of Peckham and my own childhood. That night, as I tried to get my head down, I found myself remembering all my old haunts and thinking about my parents and a whole lot of other things that I hadn’t thought about in a long while.