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.