WE COULD SEE THE LIGHTSÂ of Musa Qala in the distance. February 2008.
Our tanks were in a harbor and we were eating dinner out of bags, talking in low voices.
After the meal, around midnight, I went on radio stag. Sitting in the back of a Spartan, the big door open, I had the desk pulled down and I was taking notes off the radio. My only light was a dim bulb overhead in a wire cage. The stars in the desert sky were brighter than that bulb, and seemed closer.
I was running the radio off the Spartan’s battery, so every now and then I’d start the engine to give the battery a charge. I didn’t like making noise, for fear of attracting the Taliban’s attention, but I had no choice.
After a while I tidied up the Spartan, poured myself a cup of hot chocolate from a thermos, which didn’t warm me. Nothing could. The desert could get so cold. I was wearing desert combats, desert boots, a green puffer, a wool beanie—and still shivering.
I tweaked the radio’s volume, tried to pick up the voices between its crackles and squelches. Mission reports being sent in. Info about mail deliveries. Messages being passed through battle group net, none of which related to my squadron.
I think it was about one A.M. when I heard several people talking about Red Fox.
Zero Alpha, the officer in command, was telling someone that Red Fox this and Red Fox that…I jotted a few notes, but stopped writing and looked up at the stars when I heard them mention…C Squadron.
The voices were saying that this Red Fox was in trouble, no doubt about
it.
I made out that Red Fox was a person. Had he done something wrong? No.
Were others planning to do him wrong? Yes.
Judging from the tone of the voices, Red Fox was about to be murdered. I swallowed a mouthful of hot chocolate and blinked at the radio and knew with total certainty that Red Fox was me.
Now the voices were saying more explicitly that Red Fox’s cover had been blown, that he was exposed to the enemy, that he needed to be extracted immediately.
Fuck, I said. Fuck fuck fuck.
My mind flashed back to Eton. The fox I’d glimpsed, when stoned, from the window of the loo. So, he really had been a messenger from the future after all. One day you’ll be alone, late at night, in the darkness, hunted like me…see how you like it.
Next day we went on patrol and I was full-on paranoid, worried I’d be recognized. I wore a shemagh tightly over my face, with blacked-out ski goggles, while keeping my head on a swivel and my finger tight on the trigger of my machine gun.
After dusk Special Forces collected me, their Chinook escorted by two Apaches I was chatting with over the radio. They flew me across the valley, back to FOB Edinburgh. We landed in darkness and I couldn’t see a thing. I ran into the FOB, then into a green canvas tent, where it was even darker.
I heard a squeak.
A soft light came on.
A man stood before me, screwing a small lightbulb into a socket dangling from the roof.
Colonel Ed.
His long face seemed longer than I remembered, and he was wearing a long green overcoat, like something straight out of the First World War. He filled me in on what happened. An Australian magazine had outed me, told the world I was in Afghanistan. The magazine was inconsequential, so no one noticed at first, but then some bell-end in America picked up the story, posted it on his worthless website, and that got picked up by the crawlers. Now the news was everywhere. The worst-kept secret in the Milky Way was the presence of one Prince Harry in Helmand Province.
So—you’re out.
Colonel Ed apologized. He knew this wasn’t when or how I wanted to end my tour of duty. On the other hand, he wanted me to know that his superiors had been pressing for weeks to pull me, so I was lucky the tour hadn’t been shorter. I’d eluded the powers that be, and the Taliban, and managed to put together a respectably long stint with a sterling record. Bravo, he said.
I was on the verge of begging to stay, but I could see there was no chance. My presence would put everyone around me in grave peril. Including Colonel Ed. Now that the Taliban knew I was in the country, and roughly where, they’d throw everything they had into killing me. The Army didn’t want me dying, but it was the same story as one year earlier: The Army was extra keen that others not die because of me.
I shared that sentiment.
I shook Colonel Ed’s hand, left the tent. I grabbed my few belongings, said a few quick goodbyes, then jumped back on the Chinook, which was still turning and burning.
Within an hour I was back in Kandahar.
I showered, shaved, got ready to catch a big plane bound for England. There were other soldiers milling about, waiting to board as well. Their mood was very different. They were all jubilant. Going home.
I stared at the ground.
Eventually we all began to realize that the boarding process was taking an inordinately long time.
What’s the holdup? we asked, impatiently.
A crew member said we were waiting on one last passenger. Who?
A Danish soldier’s coffin was being loaded into the cargo hold. We all fell silent.
When we eventually got on, and took off, the curtain at the front of the plane swung open briefly. I could see three guys on hospital beds. I unbuckled my seatbelt, walked up the aisle and discovered three gravely injured British soldiers. One, I recall, had gruesome injuries from an IED. Another was wrapped head to toe in plastic. Despite being unconscious, he
was clutching a test tube containing bits of shrapnel removed from his neck and head.
I spoke with the doctor caring for them, asked if the lads would live. He didn’t know. But even if they did, he said, they faced a very tough road.
I felt angry with myself for having been so self-absorbed. I spent the rest of that flight thinking about the many young men and women going home in similar shape, and all the ones not going home at all. I thought about the people at home who didn’t know the first thing about this war—by choice. Many opposed it, but few knew a damned thing about it. I wondered why. Whose job was it to tell them?
Oh, yes, I thought. The press.
