The warfare in Iraq has a curious resonance for me and, I would guess, for a number of other readers of the Third Age.

During the Second World War, my husband was posted to an area known as PAIFORCE, an abridged version of Persia and Iraq Force. Many of the names now being bandied about on TV became well known to me over a period of years.

He was stationed at Basra and other encampments around that area and the tales filtering out from today's soldiers bring back many memories of his letters, telling me of the terrible sandstorms, sand fly fever and other trials and tribulations.

All this had to be carefully wrapped up in very well disguised language, since we were always being told "Careless Talk Costs Lives".

Most families had arranged some sort of a code before their loved ones went abroad.

Often if a soldier from their unit went on leave, or was invalided back to England, you might get a phone call from a complete stranger who had been asked to contact you with up-to-date news.

Not for our generation the quick flight home, the mobile phone call or even the GPO lines, which now seem to spring up overnight.

Once our men had gone overseas they disappeared down a vast bottomless pit from which emerged, if you were lucky, an airmail 'bluey'.

We usually numbered the letters we wrote so that the recipient would have some idea of the order of things. There was no guarantee you would get them in the right order and often there were ominous gaps between letters.

To get to the battle zone, my husband had to go by sea round the Cape, where the South Africans made troops in transit very welcome. The huge steamer he sailed on was sunk on the voyage home, 48 hours after he had disembarked.

War seemed so far away in those days and information was less easy to come by, so I never knew until after the war ended how close he had come to death at sea.

Now every day, all day, the thunder and crunch of bombs fills our TV screens as the war correspondents vie with each other to be the first in and last out of the battle zones.

For those of us who remember what it was like to be desperate for any tiny sign from the front, whichever theatre of war held our interest, it seems incredible that soldiers can pick up a phone in a far-flung corner of the world and, even with the restrictions of front-line reporting, bring the war into our sitting rooms.

The loss of life becomes almost insignificant when quoted in barely double figures when hostilities are already a few days old. On one day during the battle of the Somme in the First World War, some 20,000 soldiers died - almost unbelievable in today's fighting.

For those who lose sons, husbands and daughters in this conflict, the loss is no easier to bear because it is one of so few, not so many. I think back now to how I felt all those years ago and in many ways I am thankful I did not know too much about what my husband was facing. The tales we heard from wounded soldiers who had been sent back to England for treatment almost seemed to have happened in another world.

I wonder what today's wives and mothers feel as the pictures on the TV bring death and destruction into their homes. If you join the Armed Forces, in your heart of hearts you know there may come a day when you will look down the wrong end of someone's rifle.

But even now, after all these years, I can remember what it felt like to dress the wounds of a badly injured soldier and say a little prayer of thanks that it was not my husband.

These days you may not see the whites of your enemy's eyes but you will be just as dead.