2-14（在线收听）

14.

At times I worried that I was actually missing out on the real war. Was I perhaps sitting in thewar’s waiting room? The real war, I feared, was just down the valley; I could see the thick puffs ofsmoke, the plumes from explosions, mostly in and around Garmsir. A place of tremendousstrategic importance. Critical gateway, river port through which supplies, especially guns, flowedto the Taliban. Plus, an entry point for new fighters. They’d be issued an AK-47, a fistful ofbullets, and told to head towards us through their maze of trenches. This was their initiation test,which the Taliban called their “blooding.”

Were Sandy and Tiggy working for the Taliban?

It happened often. A Taliban recruit would pop up, fire at us, and we’d return fire with twentytimes the force. Any Taliban recruit who survived that barrage would then be promoted, sent tofight and die in one of the bigger cities, like Gereshk, or Lashkar Gah, which some called LashVegas. Most, however, didn’t survive. The Taliban left their bodies to rot. I watched dogs the sizeof wolves chew many a recruit off the battlefield.

I began pleading with my commanding officers: Get me out of here. A few guys made thesame plea, but for different reasons. I was begging to go closer to the front. Send me to Garmsir.

Finally, on Christmas Eve 2007, my request was approved. I was to replace an outgoing FACat Forward Operating Base Delhi, which was inside an abandoned Garmsir school.

Small gravel courtyard, corrugated tin roof. Someone said the school had been an agriculturaluniversity. Someone else said it had been a madrassa. For the moment, however, it was a part ofthe British Commonwealth. And my new home.

It was also home to a company of Gurkhas.

Recruited from Nepal, from the remotest villages along the foothills of the Himalayas, theGurkhas had fought in every British war of the last two centuries, and distinguished themselves ineach one. They scrapped like tigers, never gave up, and as a result they held a special place in theBritish Army—and in my heart. I’d been hearing about the Gurkhas since I was a boy: one of thefirst uniforms I’d ever worn was a Gurkha uniform. At Sandhurst the Gurkhas always played theenemy in military exercises, which always felt a bit ridiculous because they were beloved.

After the exercises a Gurkha would invariably walk up to me and offer me a cup of hotchocolate. They had a solemn reverence for royalty. A king, to their minds, was divine. (Theirown king was believed to be the reincarnated Hindu god Vishnu.) A prince, therefore, wasn’t faroff. I’d felt this growing up, but now felt it again. As I walked through Delhi, the Gurkhas allbowed. They called me saab.

Yes, saab. No, saab.

I pleaded: Don’t. I’m just Lieutenant Wales. I’m just Widow Six Seven.

They laughed. No chance, saab.

Neither would they have dreamed of allowing me to go anywhere by myself. Royal personsrequired royal escort. Often I’d be headed to the mess, or the loo, and suddenly become aware of ashadow on my right. Then another on my left. Hello, saab. It was embarrassing, albeit touching. Iadored them, as did the local Afghans, who sold the Gurkhas many chickens and goats and evenbantered with them about recipes. The Army talked a lot about winning Afghan “hearts andminds,” meaning converting locals to democracy and freedom, but only the Gurkhas seemed to beactually doing it.

When they weren’t escorting me, the Gurkhas were intent on fattening me up. Food was theirlove language. And while each Gurkha thought himself a five-star chef, they all had the samespeciality. Goat curry.

I remember one day hearing rotors overhead. I looked up. Everyone on the base looked up. Achopper slowly descending. And hanging from the skids, wrapped in a net, was a goat. Christmaspresent for the Gurkhas.

In a great burst of dust the helicopter touched down. Out jumped a man, bald, blondish, thepicture of a British officer.

He was also vaguely familiar.

I know this bloke, I said aloud.

I snapped my fingers. It’s good old Bevan!

He’d worked for Pa for a few years. He’d even chaperoned us one winter in Klosters. (Irecalled him skiing in a Barbour jacket, so quintessentially aristocratic.) Now, apparently, he wasthe brigade commander’s number two. And thus, delivering goats on behalf of the commander tothe beloved Gurkhas.

I was floored to bump into him, but he was only mildly surprised—or interested. He was toopreoccupied with those goats. Besides the one in the net, he’d cradled one between his knees onthe whole flight, and he now guided this little fellow on a lead, like a cocker spaniel, over to aGurkha.

Poor Bevan. I could see how he’d bonded with that goat, how unprepared he was for what wascoming.

The Gurkha took out his kukri and lopped off its head.

The tan, bearded face dropped to the ground like one of the taped-up loo rolls we used forrugby balls.

The Gurkha then neatly, expertly collected the blood in a cup. Nothing was to be wasted.

As for the second goat, the Gurkha handed me the kukri, asked if I’d like to do the honors.

Back home I had several kukris. They’d been gifts from Gurkhas. I knew how to handle one.

But no, I said, no, thank you, not here, not just now.

I wasn’t sure why I said no. Maybe because there was enough killing all around me withoutadding more. I flashed back to telling George that I absolutely didn’t want to snip off any balls.

Where did I draw the line?

At suffering, that’s where. I didn’t want to go all Henry VIII on that goat mainly because Iwasn’t skilled in the art, and if I missed or miscalculated the poor thing would suffer.

The Gurkha nodded. As you wish, saab.

He swung the kukri.

Even after the goat’s head hit the ground, I remember, its yellow eyes kept blinking.