Lt Col Rhodri Phillip, Kate Sherman, Mark Thoburn and Lt Col Gareth Thomas.
Hannah Lawton of the GB Rowing Team Paralympic Programme and all the other coaches and hopefuls at the Bath University training weekend, who tolerated me asking them questions when they had better things to do.
At HarperCollins, Liz Dawson for suggesting me for this project, Oliver Malcolm for agreeing with her, Emily Arbis for pulling everything together, and Simon Gerratt and Jane Donovan for eagle-eyed copy-editing.
At Caskie Mushens, Juliet Mushens and Nathalie Hallam.
At Kensington Palace, Kat McKeever and of course Prince Harry, whose passion for and eloquence about the Invictus Games cause comes from the heart and is awe-inspiring.
My parents, David and Judy Starling, and my in-laws, Jenie and Jeremy Wyatt.
And as always, my wife, Charlotte, and our children, Florence and Linus, the three captains of my soul.
Out of the night which covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley, 1875
PROLOGUE
1 March 2008
Five miles above the earth, the night inky-black outside, the young officer bit down hard on his anger.
The transport plane was full of blokes going home: tired, happy, relieved to have survived their tours in Afghanistan pretty much unscathed, at least on the outside. The officer wasn’t part of these men: he was a Second Lieutenant in the Household Cavalry and his men were still out in Afghanistan. He was going home not because he wanted to but because he’d been ordered to, and he wasn’t at all happy about it. He’d been in Afghanistan for 10 weeks and his tour was supposed to be 14. Ten weeks was easily long enough to get a campaign medal, but he didn’t much care about that: he cared about being with his men until the end.
He’d loved it out in Afghanistan. For the first time in his life he’d been treated as a normal bloke rather than anyone special. He’d trained hard and done his job well: patrolling the deserted bombed-out streets of Garmsir, southern Helmand Province, defending his position from Taliban mortar and machine-gun attacks, and calling in airstrikes on enemy positions. To the pilots who dropped 500lb bombs on the co-ordinates he gave them he was just ‘Widow Six Seven’, his callsign – they didn’t know his real name and they wouldn’t have cared if they had. It was the people back home who cared, not the men in theatre. He’d slept alongside those men in Hesco wire-mesh gabion bunkers and used the rounded ends of missile cases as shaving bowls with them. He was a good soldier and a good man – that was all that mattered to them.
There was only really one thing the officer hadn’t seen, and that was death or serious injury. Sure, he’d called in many medical evacuations for soldiers who’d been blown up by improvised explosive devices (IEDs) or shot in contact with Taliban fighters. Sometimes he’d said ‘op vampire’ when the casualty needed a lot of blood, and that always sent shivers down his spine. He’d lain in bed late at night and felt the place shaking from the downforce of a Chinook or a Black Hawk carrying the wounded, but he’d never seen someone killed or maimed.
Here, now, on the transport plane high above the Black Sea, he saw it.
The plane had been late leaving Kandahar Airfield because it had to wait for the coffin of a Danish soldier. Morten Krogh Jensen, just 21, had only been in Afghanistan three weeks. He’d been one of those people whom everyone had naturally liked: in a no-holds-barred team review of each soldier’s performance, Krogh had been the only one with nothing negative said about him whatsoever. Now his body was being repatriated to the seaside town of Frederikssund, where he’d helped his friends paint the hulls of boats in the harbour, where he’d convened groups to head for techno concerts in nearby Copenhagen, and where his family waited with an unfathomable hole in their lives.
Krogh’s coffin was kept out of sight, as were three British soldiers who’d been seriously wounded and were being taken back to Britain’s premier military hospital at Selly Oak in Birmingham. These soldiers were behind a curtain at the front of the plane, yet now and then the curtain blew open slightly and the young officer could see them. They were in a bad way: wrapped up in what looked like clingfilm and with bandages round the stumps of missing limbs. One of them was clutching a tiny bottle full of shrapnel removed from his skull. They were all in induced comas.
The young officer saw all this, as raw and visceral a face of war as could be. Too raw and visceral to be shown on the news, too raw and visceral for a public who didn’t, couldn’t, know the true cost of conflict unless they knew this. He hadn’t prepared himself, and the sight shocked and rattled him somewhere deep within himself. It certainly put his own frustrations into perspective.
The transport plane made its relentless way north-west, over the sleeping cities of Europe through which so much history had marched. It was daylight when the plane landed at Birmingham to unload the three wounded men, and mid-morning by the time it made the short hop back to RAF Brize Norton, where most people were disembarking. The young officer was 41st off the plane. No special treatment.
No special treatment, that was, until his feet stepped onto the tarmac. He may have been 41st off the plane, but he was still third in line to the throne, and numbers one and two were waiting for him. In Afghanistan he had been Second Lieutenant Wales. Now he was Prince Harry again.
He’d been pulled out for his own safety after details of his presence in Afghanistan had been made public. Once the news was out it was out, and so too was Harry.
He drove back to Windsor with his father, Prince Charles, and his brother, Prince William. The English countryside rolled past the windows, so much gentler and greener than the harsh browns of Afghanistan.
He thought about the men he’d seen behind that curtain. He wondered what he could do for them. There had to be something. But what? He had questions but no answers; he had a problem
