NEAR THE TAIL END OF my Apache training, at Wattisham Airfield in Suffolk, I got one more instructor.
It was his job to put on the finishing touches.
Upon meeting, shaking hands, he gave me a knowing smile. I smiled back.
He kept smiling.
I smiled back, but started to wonder: What?
I thought he was about to pay me a compliment. Or ask a favor. Instead he asked if I recognized his voice.
No.
He was part of the team that extracted me, he said.
Oh, back in 2008? Yes.
We’d talked briefly over the radio that night, I recalled.
I remember how gutted you were.
Yeah.
I could hear it in your voice. Yeah. I was devastated.
He smiled wider. Now look at you.
