The mist often hung low across the camp and brought with it an ethereal fug. There was a surreal quality to looking out across the fields at lunchtime, the faint popping noise of the ranges in the distance, blurred by the cloying grey damp that had rolled down from the hills. The baby had decided to sleep. She rarely slept and was both an early bird and a night owl. The quietness felt borrowed, at any minute there was the chance that she would wake up, and chaos would encompass our small house.
I was washing the dishes. Making use of the rare stillness to complete mundane tasks. The air was cold, and the warmth of the dish water was pleasant on my hands. A young squaddie was walking down the road in the front of the house, I watched from the kitchen window as he moved from door to door, shoving pamphlets through letterboxes. He looked very young, quite scrawny, as if he had borrowed his dad’s beret and gone out to play soldiers with his friends.
Too late, I realized that the letterbox rattle may wake the baby. I dived for the door and grabbed the paper whilst the squaddie still held the other side. There was an embarrassing tussle until we both understood who should be the recipient and who should be the donor. I held my breath for a second, but the baby did not wake up.
The leaflet boldly stated, “Check! There could be a bomb!” I moved slowly to the staircase and perched on the bottom step:
Check under your vehicle especially when it has been left unattended for some time.
Check every morning in case someone has tampered with your vehicle overnight.
Sitting on the stairs, I realized that the baby was a target too. She could be sitting her car seat, crinkling a brightly colored toy, and someone could detonate a device.
Then the baby began to cry, and I put it to the back of my mind.
Gemma Parry-Paxton is a UK-based based writer. She writes about her experiences as an army wife living on base.
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