2-39（在线收听）

39.

I got my wings. Pa, as Army Air Corps Colonel-in-Chief, pinned them to my chest.

May 2010.

Happy day. Pa, wearing his blue beret, officially presented me with mine. I put it on and wesaluted each other. It felt almost more intimate than a hug.

Camilla was on hand. And Mummy’s sisters. And Chels. We were back together.

Then broke up soon after.

We had no choice—yet again. We had all the same old problems, nothing had been solved.

Also, Chels wanted to travel, have fun, be young, but I was once again on a path to war. I’d soonbe shipping off. If we stayed together, we’d be lucky to see each other a handful of times over thenext two years, and that was no kind of relationship. Neither of us was surprised when we foundourselves in the same old emotional cul-de-sac.

Goodbye, Chels.

Goodbye, Hazza.

The day I got my wings, I figured she got hers.

We went to Botswana one last time. One last trip upriver, we said. One last visit to Teej andMike.

We had great fun, and naturally wavered about our decision. I tried now and then, and talkednow and then, of different ways this might still work. Chels played along. We were being soobviously, willfully delusional, that Teej felt the need to step in.

It’s over, kids. You’re postponing the inevitable. And making yourselves crazy in the process.

We were staying in a tent in her garden. She sat with us in the tent, delivering these difficulttruths while holding hands with each of us. Looking us in the eyes, she urged us to let this breakupbe final.

Don’t waste the most precious thing there is. Time.

She was right, I knew. As Sergeant Major Booley said: It’s time.

So I forced myself to put the relationship out of my mind—in fact, all relationships. Stay busy,I told myself as I flew away from Botswana. In the short while left before you ship to Afghanistan,just stay busy.

To that end, I went to Lesotho with Willy. We visited several schools built by Sentebale.

Prince Seeiso was with us; he’d co-founded the charity with me back in 2006, shortly after losinghis own mother. (His mother had also been a fighter in the war against HIV.) He took us to meetscores of children, each with a wrenching story. The average life expectancy in Lesotho at thattime was forty-something, while in Britain it was seventy-nine for men, eighty-two for women.

Being a child in Lesotho was like being middle-aged in Manchester, and while there were variouscomplicated reasons for this, the main one was HIV.

A quarter of all Lesotho adults were HIV-positive.

After two or three days we set off with Prince Seeiso towards more remote schools, off thegrid. Way off. As a gift Prince Seeiso gave us wild ponies, to ride part of the way, and tribalblankets for the cold. We wore them as capes.

Our first stop was a frozen village in the clouds: Semonkong. Some seven thousand feet abovesea level, it lay between snow-tipped mountains. Plumes of warm air spurted from the horses’

noses as we pushed them up, up, but when the climb got too steep, we switched to trucks.

Upon arriving we went straight into the school. Shepherd boys would come here twice a week,have a hot meal, go to a class. We sat in semi-darkness, beside a paraffin lamp, watching a lesson,and then we sat on the ground with a dozen boys, some as young as eight. We listened to themdescribe their daily trek to our school. It defied belief: after twelve hours of tending their cattle andsheep, they’d walk for two hours through mountain passes just to learn maths, reading, writing.

Such was their hunger to learn. They braved sore feet, bitter cold—and far worse. They were sovulnerable on the road, so exposed to the elements, several had died from lightning strikes. Manyhad been attacked by stray dogs. They dropped their voices and told us that many had also beensexually abused by wanderers, rustlers, nomads, and other boys.

I felt ashamed to think of all my bitching about school. About anything.

Despite what they’d suffered, the boys were still boys. Their joy was irrepressible. Theythrilled at the gifts we’d brought—warm coats, wool beanies. They put on the clothes, danced,sang. We joined them.

One boy kept to the side. His face was round, open, transparent. There was obviously a terribleburden on his heart. I felt it would be prying to ask. But I had one more gift in my bag, a torch,and I gave it to him.

I said I hoped it would light his way each day to school.

He smiled.

I wanted to tell him that his smile would light mine. I tried.

Alas, my Sesotho wasn’t very good.