I left work yesterday at 5pm. I had done everything and was heading out. I drove contentedly past Lake Geneva and the elegant buildings as the sun was setting casting golden rays across the water, and the Jura mountains glowed warmly in the afternoon light.

What a beautiful place I thought to myself. I am so lucky to be here (I also worked damn hard for it too!). Yet an hour earlier I had read an article that popped out at me on the BBC news website and it cast a tinge across the drive.

A chopper had gone down near Camp Taji and it was not looking good for the occupants. I looked for names hoping I would not see any fellow contractors I knew. From what I could make out, it was mostly military personnel on Ops.

You spend a year with these people - contractors and/or service personnel, eat with them, crack jokes or grizzle about the heat/the dust/the mud. They look after you on chopper flights at night across 'Indian territory'. You don't just walk away and forget it all never happened.

There's a lot of emotions I have about this and I won't go into them here - it is private. Suffice to say my thoughts that evening were with others, not just myself.