Claire Blackman was standing behind her husband when she first watched the video which - for a while at least - made him a cold-blooded murderer.
In grainy footage, Sergeant Alexander Blackman – the man she knew as “big softie Al” – was seen in the middle of scrubland in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, shooting a horrifically injured Taliban insurgent in the chest at point blank range with his pistol.
“Shuffle off this mortal coil, you c***,” he was heard muttering.
It was inarguably disturbing viewing and the key piece of evidence which saw him convicted and jailed for life.
Softly-spoken Al, now 44, is perhaps better known as ‘Marine A’, his notorious alias during the 2013 military trial which saw him convicted of murder for his action in Afghanistan - the first British service person to be convicted of murder on the battlefield - and sentenced to life.
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Al couldn’t see Claire’s face where he was sitting in the court room, with his legal team.
They had actually suggested she didn’t watch the footage, but Al was determined to be open and honest with her.
“I was nervous, it’s not my finest hour - there was a worry she would see me in a different way,” he admits, quietly.
Yet even in that first moment, Claire, 47, did not question why he had done it, or waver for a nano-second in her love and respect for him.
Extraordinarily, she insists: “I never had to ask why – rightly or wrongly, I honestly didn’t.
“While it was not pleasant viewing, I didn’t feel it was my place to judge.”
That says everything about the unshakeable woman who sits by him today, who stood by him as the nation rowed over whether he was a national disgrace, or national hero.
After over three years in prison, and an appeal funded by massive public support, his murder charge was finally reduced to manslaughter, and his minimum ten-year sentence slashed, based in part on new evidence he had been suffering adjustment disorder, a form of combat stress.
Shockingly, he had been given no mental health assessment before his trial.
Today, he has been free almost two years, and has now written a new book – Marine A: My Toughest Battle.
Al admits just how low the whole affair brought him – and exactly what Claire’s support meant to him.
“I was on suicide watch for a couple of months when I first went to prison,” he says.
“First in military prison, then when I was transferred to a civilian prison.
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“I was depressed. It’s easy to see how prison can be a dark place, lots of time alone to dwell on things.”
The dedicated serviceman had been dishonourably discharged – dismissed with disgrace – on top of his conviction. That was torment.
“Some of the more condemning voices continued to preach about what a terrible human being I was. Even figures high up in the military were keen to denounce the evil I’d wreaked,” he writes.
“If I hadn’t had Claire...,” he pauses. “Knowing I had Claire really did save me.”
But, outside, Claire couldn’t know her support would be enough.
She had been told he was on suicide watch.
In military prison in Colchester, he slept under strip lights, observed through a one-way mirror, told to keep his arms on top of the covers and woken by intercom if he did not just to “make sure that I was still alive”.
In a civilian cell, he continued to be checked at regular intervals through the night, a service light whacked on maybe every “15 minutes, half hour, hour.”
But Al, rarely emotional, didn’t often discuss it. Again, she could only believe in him.
“I trusted him,” she says, as we walk with the couple’s two-year-old labrador Dave near their cottage in Taunton, Somerset – getting Dave was one of the first things they did when Al was free.
Claire is a pragmatic sort like her husband, but admits: “Tears are a great release, there were times I wanted that feeling, but it just didn’t happen. It was too hard to even cry.”
Al joined the Marines in 1998, and served a tour in Northern Ireland, three in Iraq, and one in Afghanistan in Sangin Valley before returning with a 14-man unit in a remote corner, Nad Ali (North) district, in 2011.
He and Claire, who works in PR for the NHS, had married in 2009.
“I recognised how special Claire was from the moment we met,” says Al, shyly.
Al’s father had died before he returned to Afghanistan in 2011.
Still grieving, he was greeted by warnings troops were being blown up regularly, and witnessed body parts being hung on trees as trophies by insurgents.
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Al experienced so many near-misses, he believed he was personally being targeted as the unit commander.
“On more than one occasion we would split our patrol, the other group would get across, and we would get shot at.”
His fears were deepened by the lack of security on their base.
The day of the incident had been long and sweltering, and Al and his men were almost back to base when they were radioed insurgents had been spotted with weapons.
An Apache helicopter above opened fire, and they were called out to collect the weapon of an insurgent blown to smithereens.
Only he wasn’t dead. When they reached him, his lungs visible through his devastating wounds, he opened his eyes.
Al radioed the news, and he and his men carried the dying man rapidly to cover to wait for a helicopter to collect him.
But amid the exhaustion and danger, something snapped in Al - he radioed the insurgent had died, then shot him.
The incident, he says, blended into the daily horror of that tour, and he didn’t think of it again.
But it had been caught on a head-cam, worn by by one of Al’s unit.
Unaware, he went home, and slowly adjusted. Claire initially spotted him checking the pavements for IEDs, but that passed.
It was not until the following year the video came to light and he was arrested one Saturday at their home.
When he first saw the video, he could not recognise himself.
“I still struggle with why I did what I did on that day, I still can’t come up with a reason. It still doesn’t feel like me,” he says.
Has he had to work hard at forgiving himself?
It’s not really like that, he explains: “This guy had 130 plus rounds of 30-mil explosive ammunition fired at him, he was in a terrible state. I believed at the time he was dead - I’m willing to admit I was probably wrong.
“But in my opinion he was never going to survive that day...”
He adds, honestly: “It’s not something I’m proud of. But hindsight is brilliant.
"If you were to leap me back into that moment, with no knowledge of the future, the outcome would undoubtedly be the same.”
Claire adds: “He was sent out to an incredibly difficult environment to do an incredibly difficult job.”
Tellingly, around half of his unit have dealt with some form of combat stress disorder since.
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Al never believed he “deserved” his conviction - the vast public outpouring of support helped.
Claire smiles: “We have five huge plastic storage boxes full of letters and cards.”
When he was released, he would be asked for selfies, or given random hugs. It still happens.
But the couple insist they have faced very little problem adjusting.
“Almost the day he came home it felt as if it hadn’t happened, it went back to being us,” says Claire.
They briefly considered taking further action, but decided against.
“We have let go of it, there’s no anger, it doesn’t keep you warm at night, it doesn’t make you a better person, it just consumes you,” says Al.
Instead, they are intent only on happiness and peace.
Next October, Al will finally be off licence and able to travel abroad.
Coincidentally, that milestone will fall on the 28th – the birthday of the Royal Marines. He will celebrate both.
He still remains involved with the military life. He works for a charity ExFor+, helping to re-settle veterans into civilian life.
Neither he nor Claire enjoy fuss, they won’t do more than raise a glass to mark Al’s two years of freedom.
Nor will they consider renewing their marriage vows when they celebrate ten years in December.
“We felt first time round it was forever,” says Claire. “And we have kind of proved that.”
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