tour, to both protect the men serving beside him and allow the young soldier the privacy to perform his duty. To be one of the troops.
Of course, cameras followed from a distance, filming him. Showing him mucking in like any other man of his rank and duty. A promise from the media, a gentlemen’s agreement, to not break the story until his unit were safely home was respected. A year later an admiring public watched with admiration as the news crews showed footage of the young captain doing his duty.
A substantial morale boost to the troops, his presence lingered for months following his departure, motivating the men who remained or replaced.
Ask any of the soldiers stationed there during that time, and they’ll tell you, “Great patriot. One of the lads. True professional.”
And they wouldn’t be lying: the man they served with was all of those things. He just wasn’t actually Captain Wales.
The genuine article, Spike we call him, long story , was in Syria, doing his real job.
I cut him a look, marvelling as I always do at how effectively this man masks who he really is beneath a veneer of joviality and haphazard clumsiness.
“I might be a schemey,” I smile at him, “but that lassie over there is all class. He’s getting sent packing.”
I jab a thumb at Jimmy who, one hand on her knee the other trying to get the attention of the barman, is laying it on thick for the lady in red.
“Watch this,” I say.
Harry flashes his best smile, the one we call his camera smile . All perfect teeth and carefree attitude, a mask for the iron-veined soldier underneath. The Batman persona .
“Yes, all right then, Cameron. Let’s see, shall we?”
His confidence, borne of generations of status, wealth and breeding, but also from hundreds of hours of Black-Op missions and killing, oozes from every pore.
We watch as the girl accepts the drink – a single-malt, no ice – and gently removes James’ hand from her thigh where it’s crept. She talks politely for a few short minutes then firmly ushers him back to our table. He walks slowly back to us, arms spread like Jesus, all attrition and mock repentance.
“She’s gay,” he tells us, sheepishly, despite his demeanour.
Spike’s laugh fills the booth.
“Of course she is, my boy. What rotten luck.” His affection is genuine.
I pick up my winnings from the table as Jim plonks himself back into the comfortable leather bench of the booth.
Spike juts his chin towards the bar.
“My round, I believe, chaps. Same again?”
Jim burps loudly, exaggerating the noise. “I’ll have a pint this time, Spike,” he says, Edinburgh accent thickening as his sobriety thins.
I take the fifty from Spike’s hand. “I’ll go,” I say.
His lips thin but he doesn’t argue with me. He knows we could do with some peace and quiet. It’s almost midnight and people are busy getting excited about seeing another year end and one begin, but as soon as he leaves the relative privacy of the booth, cap pulled down over his eyes and bushy red hair or not, someone will clock that famous face of his and our night will be over.
The lady in red catches my eye as I approach the bar and waves me over.
“Your pal. He all right?” Her husband’s back at her side and giving us a puzzled look.
“Aye,” I say, “he’ll cope.” I smile at them both. He looks relaxed, but you never know with some blokes, especially on the drink.
“Another admirer, eh?” he smiles at his wife and then throws a big genuine grin at me. “Poor wee bastard.” He laughs, sharing a private joke with his wife.
I acknowledge his joke with a nod, “Have a good night, folks. Happy New Year when it comes.”
The couple return their best wishes and I turn back to the bar to shout the barman over.
Whilst he’s away pouring the drinks, I scan around the pub. It’s packed, so we did well to get the booth during Hogmanay in Edinburgh. It’s a minor miracle we got a seat at all, but we have been
Of course, cameras followed from a distance, filming him. Showing him mucking in like any other man of his rank and duty. A promise from the media, a gentlemen’s agreement, to not break the story until his unit were safely home was respected. A year later an admiring public watched with admiration as the news crews showed footage of the young captain doing his duty.
A substantial morale boost to the troops, his presence lingered for months following his departure, motivating the men who remained or replaced.
Ask any of the soldiers stationed there during that time, and they’ll tell you, “Great patriot. One of the lads. True professional.”
And they wouldn’t be lying: the man they served with was all of those things. He just wasn’t actually Captain Wales.
The genuine article, Spike we call him, long story , was in Syria, doing his real job.
I cut him a look, marvelling as I always do at how effectively this man masks who he really is beneath a veneer of joviality and haphazard clumsiness.
“I might be a schemey,” I smile at him, “but that lassie over there is all class. He’s getting sent packing.”
I jab a thumb at Jimmy who, one hand on her knee the other trying to get the attention of the barman, is laying it on thick for the lady in red.
“Watch this,” I say.
Harry flashes his best smile, the one we call his camera smile . All perfect teeth and carefree attitude, a mask for the iron-veined soldier underneath. The Batman persona .
“Yes, all right then, Cameron. Let’s see, shall we?”
His confidence, borne of generations of status, wealth and breeding, but also from hundreds of hours of Black-Op missions and killing, oozes from every pore.
We watch as the girl accepts the drink – a single-malt, no ice – and gently removes James’ hand from her thigh where it’s crept. She talks politely for a few short minutes then firmly ushers him back to our table. He walks slowly back to us, arms spread like Jesus, all attrition and mock repentance.
“She’s gay,” he tells us, sheepishly, despite his demeanour.
Spike’s laugh fills the booth.
“Of course she is, my boy. What rotten luck.” His affection is genuine.
I pick up my winnings from the table as Jim plonks himself back into the comfortable leather bench of the booth.
Spike juts his chin towards the bar.
“My round, I believe, chaps. Same again?”
Jim burps loudly, exaggerating the noise. “I’ll have a pint this time, Spike,” he says, Edinburgh accent thickening as his sobriety thins.
I take the fifty from Spike’s hand. “I’ll go,” I say.
His lips thin but he doesn’t argue with me. He knows we could do with some peace and quiet. It’s almost midnight and people are busy getting excited about seeing another year end and one begin, but as soon as he leaves the relative privacy of the booth, cap pulled down over his eyes and bushy red hair or not, someone will clock that famous face of his and our night will be over.
The lady in red catches my eye as I approach the bar and waves me over.
“Your pal. He all right?” Her husband’s back at her side and giving us a puzzled look.
“Aye,” I say, “he’ll cope.” I smile at them both. He looks relaxed, but you never know with some blokes, especially on the drink.
“Another admirer, eh?” he smiles at his wife and then throws a big genuine grin at me. “Poor wee bastard.” He laughs, sharing a private joke with his wife.
I acknowledge his joke with a nod, “Have a good night, folks. Happy New Year when it comes.”
The couple return their best wishes and I turn back to the bar to shout the barman over.
Whilst he’s away pouring the drinks, I scan around the pub. It’s packed, so we did well to get the booth during Hogmanay in Edinburgh. It’s a minor miracle we got a seat at all, but we have been
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