The helicopter.

It was holiday time and people were relaxing on sunbeds, preparing al fresco lunches or pottering about with the tasks of checking awnings, guy ropes and gaz cans. Into the sunlit campsite with its distant laugher of children round the swimming pool came a loud clattering, thudding sound, which grew in intensity and filled the air above the colourful spread of tents and caravans. The sudden violent intrusion elicited surprise, annoyance, and curiosity. Then, as campers looked up and recognised the familiar shape hovering above, feelings of comfort, safety and security took over. The helicopter, flying higher than the sound implied, passed over the ground below then flew on into the distance. The peace of the campsite returned and the children at the pool played on.

In another place, in a village of mud and thatch huts baking under the African sun, young boys herded goats, small children played and women pounded their meagre supply of millet for the daily meal. Suddenly the approach of an all enveloping clattering, pounding, thumping and ground shaking thudding heralded the return of terror. It brought with it the knowledge of the horror that was to come and the fear-filled urge to scatter, to run, to hide. Goats were abandoned, children gathered up and the millet pots left in the desperation to escape. Then came the realisation that there was nowhere to hide as the straffing criss-crossed relentlessly over the barren ground killing anything that moved and setting the flimsy dwellings on fire. The helicopter flew on, the dust settled, a baby cried and nothing moved.