THE PALACE ANNOUNCED THAT a review had been conducted of our roles, and of the agreement reached in Sandringham.
Henceforth, we were stripped of everything but a few patronages. February 2021.
They took it all away, I thought, even my military associations. I’d no longer be captain general of the Royal Marines, a title handed down by my grandfather. I’d no longer be permitted to wear my ceremonial military uniform.
I told myself they could never take away my real uniform, or my real military status. But still.
Furthermore, the statement continued, we’d no longer be doing any service whatsoever for the Queen.
They made it sound as if there’d been an agreement between us. There was nothing of the sort.
We pushed back in our own statement, released the same day, saying we’d never cease living a life of service.
This new slap-down from the Palace was like petrol on a bonfire. We’d been under media attack non-stop since leaving, but this official severing of ties set off a new wave, which felt different. We were vilified every day, every hour, on social media, and found ourselves the subjects of scurrilous, wholly fictional stories in the newspapers, stories always attributed to “royal aides” or “royal insiders” or “palace sources,” stories clearly spoon-fed by Palace staff—and presumably sanctioned by my family.
I didn’t read any of it, seldom even heard about it. I was now avoiding the internet as I once avoided downtown Garmsir. I kept my phone on silent. Not even vibrate. Sometimes a well-meaning friend would text: Gosh, sorry about such and such. We had to ask such friends, all friends, to stop informing us what they’d read.
In all honesty, I hadn’t been totally surprised when the Palace cut ties. I’d had a sneak preview months earlier. Just before Remembrance Day I’d asked the Palace if someone could lay a wreath for me at the Cenotaph, since, of course, I couldn’t be there.
Request denied.
In that case, I said, could a wreath be laid somewhere else in Britain on my behalf?
Request denied.
In that case, I said, perhaps a wreath could be laid somewhere in the Commonwealth, anywhere at all, on my behalf?
Request denied.
Nowhere in the world would any proxy be permitted to lay any sort of wreath at any military grave on behalf of Prince Harry, I was told.
I pleaded that this would be the first time I’d let a Remembrance Day pass without paying tribute to the fallen, some of whom had been dear friends.
Request denied.
In the end I rang one of my old instructors at Sandhurst and asked him to lay my wreath for me. He suggested the Iraq and Afghanistan Memorial, in London, which had just been unveiled a few years earlier.
By Granny.
Yes. That’s perfect. Thank you.
He said it would be his honor.
Then added: And by the by, Captain Wales. Fuck this. It’s proper wrong.
