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58.

It was now official. I was no longer Prince Harry. I was Second Lieutenant Wales of the Blues andRoyals, second oldest regiment of the British Army, part of the Household Cavalry, bodyguards tothe Monarch.

The “passing out,” as they called it, took place on April 12, 2006.

On hand were Pa and Camilla, Grandpa, Tiggy and Marko.

And, of course, Granny.

She hadn’t attended a passing-out parade for decades, so her appearance was a dazzling honor.

She smiled for all to see as I marched past.

And Willy saluted. He was at Sandhurst too now. A fellow cadet. (He’d started after me,because he’d gone to university first.) He couldn’t resort to his typical attitude when we weresharing an institution, couldn’t pretend not to know me—or he’d be insubordinate.

For one brief moment, Spare outranked Heir.

Granny inspected the troops. When she came to me, she said: Oh…hello.

I smiled. And blushed.

The passing-out ceremony was followed by the playing of “Auld Lang Syne,” and then thecollege adjutant rode his white horse up the steps of the Old College.

Last, there was a lunch in the Old College. Granny gave a lovely speech. As the day peteredout, the adults left, and the real partying began. A night of serious drinking, raucous laughter. Mydate was Chels. There was eventually a second passing out, as it were. I woke the next morningwith a wide grin and a slight headache.

Next stop, I said to the shaving mirror, Iraq.

Specifically, southern Iraq. My unit would be relieving another unit, which had spent monthsdoing advanced reconnaissance. Dangerous work, constantly dodging roadside IEDs and snipers.

In that same month ten British soldiers had been killed. In the previous six months, forty.

I searched my heart. I wasn’t fearful. I was committed. I was eager. But also: war, death,whatever, anything was better than remaining in Britain, which was its own kind of battle. Justrecently, the papers had run a story about Willy leaving a voicemail for me, pretending to beChels. They’d also run a story about me asking JLP for help on a Sandhurst research project. Bothstories, for once, were true. The question was—how could the papers have known such deeplyprivate things?

It made me paranoid. Willy too. It made us reconsider Mummy’s so-called paranoia, view itthrough a very different lens.

We began to examine our inner circle, to question our most trusted friends—and their friends.

With whom had they been speaking? In whom had they confided? No one was above suspicionbecause no one could be. We even doubted our bodyguards, and we’d always worshipped ourbodyguards. (Hell, officially I was now a bodyguard—the Queen’s bodyguard.) They’d alwaysbeen like big brothers to us. But now they were also suspects.

For a fraction of a second we even doubted Marko. That was how toxic the suspicion became.

No one was above it. Some person, or persons, extremely close to me and Willy, was sneakingstuff to the newspapers, so everyone needed to be considered.

What a relief it will be, I thought, to be in a proper war zone, where none of this is part of mydaily calculus.

Please, put me on a battlefield where there are clear rules of engagement.

Where there’s some sense of honor.