She had never had the nightmare before. Her husband, Olaf "Oz" Schmid, one of the army's most respected bomb disposal experts, appeared in her dream clearly in serious trouble. "He was saying: 'I need some help, help me.' It was weird."
Next morning Christina Schmid woke up with a horrible feeling. She gave her five-year-old son, Laird, his breakfast, went into the garden and sobbed. "I had such a sense of dread. I'd never had that all tour," she said.
Later, she said, Laird looked out of the bedroom window, saw two men in military headgear and told her: "It's Daddy, Daddy's home."
She told him it was not his dad and yelled down to the men. "Just tell me he's lost all his arms and legs but he can still talk to me now. Can I talk to him please? They said: 'You need to come down.' I knew he was dead."
After every death in Afghanistan, friends, colleagues and family eulogise the fallen man or woman. The outpouring of grief and admiration that followed the death of Staff Sergeant Schmid at the end of last month was astonishing. The 30-year-old was "simply the bravest", a "phenomenon", "legendary", "effervescent". Schmid was "loved", "adored", not only by his family but those he worked alongside.
When Schmid's body was repatriated through RAF Lyneham, in Wiltshire, and the town of Wootton Bassett, Christina Schmid led the mourning. She stood in the high street and, as the hearse carrying his coffin passed the war memorial, mouthed: "Love you, love you. You've been the best dad and you've done so, so well. I'm so proud of you" – and then applauded her late husband.
Olaf Schmid was born in Truro, the son of a German woman, Barbara, and a Swedish man, Hans, who came to the UK to run a hotel. Schmid was a committed student at Polwhele school, in Truro, and became head chorister at Truro cathedral. He left school at 16 and worked at first as a chef in the army. "He wanted to crack on," said Mrs Schmid. "He definitely didn't want to go the officers' route. He had no interest in the poncey side."
Over the years he discovered he had a talent not just for the kitchen but for the much more dangerous job of bomb disposal. He was posted to 11 Explosive Ordnance Disposal Regiment, Royal Logistic Corps, working his way up from ammunition technician and passing his high-threat improvised explosive device disposal course this year, which qualified him to operate in Afghanistan.
"He had an aptitude for fiddly things, for long hours working his arse off," said Mrs Schmid. "And he also had to be able to take that lonely walk, approach everything with strength, with consistency."
Schmid was a preserver of life, said his widow. "He took the time to defuse these devices properly so they didn't cause destruction." But he tried to play down what he did, often saying that if he worked at Tesco he could slip on a broken pint of milk and hurt himself.
Schmid arrived in Afghanistan in June. During his tour he made 64 improvised explosive devices safe and attended 11 finds of bomb-making equipment. He saved lives "time after time", said one commanding officer. Mrs Schmid last spoke to her husband two days before he died. On the phone, he sounded exhausted. He told her: "I need you to come and get me. I've only had a couple of hours sleep in four days. I'm so weary and homesick and I just want you, I need you. It's just too much now, too much now, too long for me."
Saturday 31 October was due to be his last day in the field. He would have been home in Winchester a week later. But on that day his 65th IED killed him.
Mrs Schmid told how she refused to let in the men bringing her the terrible news, but Laird ran downstairs and opened the door. Despite his age, he realised his stepfather had been killed and demanded they bring his body at once, not grasping that it was still in Afghanistan.
Laird began to sob. Mrs Schmid, who did not cry, told him: "We're going to do this, one person down, Daddy's not coming back. He has died, he has been blown up, it was a bomb, but we are going to do this. We can do this like Daddy said, we're still a unit."
Schmid's body was returned on the following Thursday. Encouraged by her husband, Mrs Schmid had taken to attending repatriations at Wootton Bassett. She said her husband and his colleagues needed to feel that the public supported them. "They see themselves as protectors, they want to feel our love and thanks."
She said her husband had been keen to "step back" after the tour and help to train more people to do what he did. "He was out there for so long because there are so few of them."
But she doubted there were enough people of his quality to do such a job. "They keep talking about money, but no amount of money is going to make these characters, these strong men appear. Britain doesn't make these men any more."
Mrs Schmid will not talk politics, but said: "I feel that him and the others are there to protect us, they are not part of a political machine, they are warriors for our country. All I ask if that every politician and every civil servant works just as hard as Oz and I did to be the best people we could be in this society."
On Monday Schmid was to have taken Laird and his friends to a rough-and-tumble "boys' fest" at a play centre to celebrate his sixth birthday. For son and mother the day, and many more to come, will be very hard.
"There's a massive black hole ahead of me," said Mrs Schmid, "I feel like we've all just been kicked, beaten and somebody has blindfolded us and in the pitch black just shoved us off a cliff into the black unknown."