Harry Flashman and the Invasion of Iraq (32 page)
Charlotte spent the day by my side giggling and gushing. “It’s just like being in Hello magazine, Harry!” she hissed in my ear as she busily pointed out one TV star after another, most of whom I wouldn’t have known from Adam. For my part, I spent a thoroughly enjoyable few hours toadying with luminaries from the armed forces - one never knows when such groundwork will be rewarded.
I had met the Queen before of course, but I still found myself surprised by how much smaller she was in the flesh than she appeared on TV. She had evidently been well briefed and seemed quiet knowledgeable about the campaign, chattering away pleasantly as she pinned the gong on my left tit.
“They tell me you were involved in several actions,” she commented discreetly. “You must be delighted to have got home safely.”
“Ma’am, you have no idea what a relief it was,” I replied, with devastating honesty.
“Well done, Captain Flashman. Very well done indeed.” She smiled at me for a moment, then plodded on down the line to the next deserving soul to be decorated. If only you knew, I thought to myself.
A couple of days later I found myself back at the QRH Regimental Headquarters where I spent the day strutting around, terribly pleased with myself, knowing I was the object of a great deal of professional envy. The CO bumped into me in the mess during lunchtime and asked me to visit his office during the afternoon.
“I have a little something to discuss with you,” he remarked over the salad counter, and winked conspiratorially. “Drop in at three o’clock and I’ll fill in the details.”
For a moment I was all a quiver - I wondered if I was being sent away again. I consoled myself with the thought that it was still too soon after Iraq, and anyway the British forces weren’t planning any new deployments, or at least none that I knew of. It was probably some mundane task, designed to take the shine off my new gong.
I knocked on his door at the allotted hour and was summoned inside, where he waved me into one of his voluminous leather armchairs.
“Harry, first let me offer my heartfelt congrats on your recent decoration,” he started. “It really is an honour to have you serving in the Regiment right now. I’m delighted for you.”
I stammered some thanks and wondered where the conversation was leading.
“I have been chatting with the appointing people recently,” he continued. “I think you have proven your mettle often enough, young Flashman, and it’s high time we recognised the full extent of your abilities.”
So far so very good, I thought to myself. Now for the punch line.
“I’m delighted to tell you that you’ve been picked up for promotion.” With that, he reached across his desk and thrust out his hand. “Well done, Major Flashman. Or perhaps I should say, Major Flashman QCG!”
So the Iraq war had at least one happy ending: mine. Decorated, promoted, and most important of all, unharmed. I’m not saying for a moment that I deserved any of the accolades that came my way that spring. But I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. And, should UK Plc decide to go to war again, I take heart from the fact that my newly elevated rank should keep me safely behind a desk and out of trouble...
NOTES
1.
OBE: Order of the British Empire.
2.
DSO: Distinguished Service Order.
3.
MiD: Mention in Dispatches.
Epilogue
I am not normally a spiteful woman, as those of you who know me will testify (I hope). But when I stumbled across Harry’s wartime diaries recently I couldn’t resist taking a peek. His writing is, I think, much better than his often boorish spoken manner - and he is remarkably open and honest in the written word, unusually so for someone who usually holds back so much in the vernacular.
I read much of Harry’s commentary with shock and surprise. No longer will I look upon him as the dashing hero or fearless warrior. He is obviously nothing more than a coward and a liar, a fake Fendi in a world of designer handbags, a cheap crystal in a princess’s tiara, and I despise him for it. But even this I could have forgiven, were it not for his confession that, whilst on
active service
in Umm Qasr, he was deliberately and consciously
unfaithful
to me with some enlisted hussy from Australia. Most men, it seems, were happy enough to serve their country, endure the hardships and privations of war, and return home as heroes to loved ones and families. Only one man (at least to my knowledge) found time and energy to go seeking carnal knowledge of other coalition troops - and then had the sheer affront to accept a medal for valour
from the Queen
in the certain knowledge that he has not a courageous bone in his body.
Therefore, dear reader, I have taken the decision to publish his diaries, albeit in an edited format which I trust makes the whole sordid tale a little easier for you to digest. Harry uses rather a lot of military acronyms in his journal, most of which I have attempted to explain in the footnotes, with a little help from my brother - I hope you found them helpful.
I trust that in doing so I have exposed Harry Flashman as the coward he really is, not to mention a cad and an unfaithful fiancée to boot. I need hardly add that the engagement is OFF - I hope never to clap eyes on the filthy animal ever again.
Yours etc.
Charlotte Woodstock
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