I WENT WITH JLP to Kensington Palace for a cocktail with General Dannatt.
As we knocked at the door to the general’s apartment I felt jumpier than I had when leaving for war.
The general and his wife, Pippa, greeted us warmly, congratulated me on my service.
I smiled, but then frowned. Yes, they said. They were sorry about my deployment being cut short.
The press—they ruin everything, don’t they? They do, they surely do.
The general poured me a gin and tonic. We gathered in chairs, a sitting area, and I took a big gulp and felt the gin go down and blurted that I needed to get back. I needed to do a full and proper tour.
The general stared. Oh. I see. Well, if that’s the case…
He began thinking aloud, running through different options, analyzing all the politics and ramifications of each.
What about…becoming a helicopter pilot?
Wow. I leaned back. Hadn’t ever considered that. Maybe because Willy and my father—and Grandpa and Uncle Andrew—were pilots. I was always keen on following my own line, doing my own thing, but General Dannatt said this would be the best way. The only way. I’d be safer, so to speak, above the fray, among the clouds. So would everyone else serving with me. Even if the press were to find out I’d gone back to Afghanistan, even if they did something stupid again—even when they did something stupid again— so what? The Taliban might know where I was, but good luck to them tracking me in the air.
How long until I can qualify as a pilot, General? About two years.
I shook my head. Too long, sir.
He shrugged. It takes what it takes. And for good reason.
There was a great deal of schoolwork involved, he explained.
Bloody hell. At every turn, life was determined to drag me back into a classroom.
I thanked him, told him I’d think about it.
