A cheer erupted from the waiting crowd, and small Union Jacks waved frantically. Albert rendered a smile. A ceremonial guard stood in formation at the bottom of the stairs. At rigid attention, they formed a gauntlet that led to several waiting vehicles. A military band struggled to be heard above the howling wind.
Despite inclement weather, Albert rode in a convertible and waved to loyal subjects. In the other vehicles — mostly armored Land Rovers — heavily-armed men comprised the motorcade’s security detail. The procession made its way along Ross Road on Stanley’s waterfront.
Young girls screamed like at a Beatles concert, old men saluted, and, among the throng, Argentine eyes took note. The vehicles rolled by Christ Church Cathedral and Whalebone Arch, passed Victory Green, and then on toward Government House where Albert would be welcomed by, and become a guest of, Governor Roger Moody.
The motorcade turned from Ross Road and onto the shady grove of Government House Road. Albert saw the whitewashed stone mansion where he would stay.
Perched on a small hilltop, Government House stood over a manicured lawn where cloud shadows, caught in the erratic wind, played their ways across the grounds. It had big windows that looked out over the sea, staring as though waiting for a love’s return. The mansion’s northern façade was dominated by a conservatory, and tall brick chimneys poked from its green-grey roof. Smoke from warming fires floated from their caps before being caught and carried away by the stiff and ever-present breeze. Built in 1845 and home to all London-appointed governors since, Government House stood watch over Stanley Harbour.
Albert sat cradled in an overstuffed wing chair next to a roaring fire that warmed him. A butler stood by to refill the Prince’s heavy crystal tumbler with whiskey. Depression and jet lag had combined to exhaust Albert. He felt sleep was upon him. The drink was slipping from his relaxed clutches. A pop from the walls awakened Albert with a spasm. The old building cooled in the evening. Its bones — beams and joists — had been crafted from parts of whaling ships that used to ply the rich waters around the Falklands. They made sounds as if they were still being stretched and twisted by the sea.
“Your Royal Highness,” Governor Moody said as he entered the mansion’s library. Albert stood up and wobbled. Embarrassed, the governor gestured him down. It was the governor, after all, who should stand in the Prince’s presence. However, Albert knew the thin and tall governor to be a combat veteran of the Falklands War, and paid him this respect nonetheless. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” the governor acknowledged the gesture and took the seat next to Albert. He also accepted a drink from the hovering butler, then removed a fine Havana from a humidor box, lit it, and used a remote to start the stereo. Chopin’s ‘Raindrop’ prelude began to serenade. Cigar smoke drifted in curls, and then was sucked up the chimney by the convective fire.
Although Governor Moody had met the Prince’s motorcade upon its arrival at Government House, he had immediately retreated to the building beside the mansion, the so-called ‘wireless room’ that housed equipment that kept the remote island in touch with London by satellite. “Excuse my absence, Your Royal Highness,” the governor said. “Since the War, we must report in every evening, even when distinguished company is in the House.” Distant and mesmerized by the flickering fire, Albert nodded acknowledgment and drank a long quaff from his glass. The governor looked the young man over, recognized his distant stare, and felt equal parts sympathy and reverence for his sovereign. The governor swirled the golden whiskey around his glass, took a sip, and decided not to fill the silence with idle chat. Both men peered at the fire. Among the flames, Albert saw the little girl and the outline of her teddy-bear. The governor, too, saw his own ghosts there, and decided to speak instead: “I think you will find your chambers most comfortable, Your Royal Highness.”
“Please, governor, call me Albert.”
“Very well. Are you thinking of the war? Of Afghanistan?”
Just as the old warrior had intended with his insightful question, Albert was forced to meet the governor’s eyes. “Your Royal Highness…Albert. Though no disfigurement may be apparent, war can wound a man deeply. It is something that one cannot understand unless they have been through the trial themselves.” Albert looked over the governor’s sharp-featured face, studied the liver spots that made a map of his face, and then peered into his blue, unrevealing eyes. Albert recognized practiced blankness in them, and realized knew pain lurked just below.
“Yes,” Albert uttered, with a trembling voice.
“It can be hard for an Englishman to admit this pain, let alone express it. It is not our way. It must be even more difficult for someone in your position, someone with such expectations put upon him,” the governor said. Albert wanted to say something, but was afraid his voice would crack if he spoke. Albert felt his throat tighten and tears began to well. “While we are welcomed home with praise and parades, it is often just an ear we need. Someone to listen,” the governor continued, took another drink, and peered at Albert over the rim of his tilted glass.
In that moment, Albert realized how much he longed for a relationship with his own father. He also understood how hard it would be for such words to come from the King’s mouth, hard for reasons of culture, station, and personality. Hatred of his father was pushed aside just a bit, though the space was readily filled by Albert’s self-loathing. Feeling detached from his own life, as though he had stepped out of a movie and had just returned, Albert thought, I killed a little girl. The thought became a trembling statement that echoed in his flight — clogged ears: “I killed a little girl,” Albert said out loud.
The governor was taken aback. He had assumed the Prince had killed, been forced to kill by circumstance, but he never expected such a confession. Questioning if he had actually spoken the words, Albert added stutteringly: “We targeted a vehicle, dispatched a missile, and a child got in the way.” The last words were choked, and Albert began to sob. It was the first time since Jugroom Fort that he had cried. The first time, in fact, that he had cried since he was just a boy. The governor dismissed the butler, moved to Albert, and wrapped an arm around the young Prince.
“It was an accident. Such things happen in war. You were doing your duty, for King and Country.” The words only made Albert cry harder. With streaming eyes clenched shut, Albert saw the girl engulfed in flames, a look of surprise and pain on her face.
Albert questioned his own sanity, and, regardless of the answer, realized he would never be the same. The innocence and the carefree days of youth were now an unfamiliar memory. He fought to regain composure. He had contemplated suicide since Afghanistan. That night, by the fire of Government House, with the kind governor’s arm about him, Albert promised himself and God he would do no such thing. He would live with the pain. Crying made him realize this pain could be diminished somewhat, forgotten a little, that he could heal. However, Albert was certain that when God decided to take him, he would likely welcome the day.
“Son, I too have killed,” the governor said. “Although my rifle claimed many, what haunts me to this day was one night at Many Branch Point. I had thrown what I thought was my last grenade at a retreating Argie. It turned out to be white phosphorous. So, instead of exploding and killing him, it ignited his uniform. He was burning alive. And I was out of ammunition and could not end his suffering. He was just a conscript. Just a boy. He should have been picking up birds in the local café, not aiming a rifle at me and my mates. He cried for his mother as he burned. To this very day, I feel this grief.” The governor let out a deep, tormented sigh. “I have become more at peace with the memory, though the nightly visits never seem to stop. Despite this, despite the horrific burdens we carry, we must carry on. As Churchill said: ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going.’”