Spare

It also takes a kind of self-love, Nige said, and this manifests as confidence. Confidence, Lieutenant Wales. Believe in yourself—that’s everything.

I saw the truth in his words, but I couldn’t imagine ever putting that truth into practice. The fact was, I didn’t believe in myself, didn’t believe in much of anything, least of all me. Whenever I made a mistake, which was often, I was quite harsh with Harry. It felt as if my mind were seizing up like an overheated engine, the red mist would come down, and I’d stop thinking, stop functioning.

No, Nige would say softly whenever this happened. Don’t let one mistake destroy this flight, Lieutenant Wales.

But I let one mistake ruin many a flight.

Sometimes my self-loathing would spill onto Nige. After having a go at me, I’d have a go at him. Fuck it, you fly the damn thing!

He’d shake his head. Lieutenant Wales, I’m not touching the controls. We are going to get down on the ground and you’re going to get us there and then we’ll talk about it all afterwards.

He had a herculean will. You’d never have guessed it from his appearance. Average height, average build, steel-gray hair combed neatly to one side. He wore spotless green overalls, spotless clear spectacles. He was a Navy civvie, a kindly grandpa who loved sailing—a top bloke. But he had the heart of a fucking ninja.

And at that moment I needed a ninja.

33.

Over several months Nige the Ninja managed to show me how to fly a helicopter while doing other things, countless other things, and, what was more, to do so with something approaching self-love. These were flying lessons, but I think back on them as life lessons, and gradually there were more good ones than bad.

Good or bad, however, every ninety-minute session in Nige’s Squirrel Dojo left me hooped. Upon landing I’d think: I need a nap.

But first: the debrief.

This was where Nige the Ninja really put me through it, because he sugarcoated nothing. He spoke bluntly and wounded blithely. There were things I needed to hear, and he didn’t care about his tone when he told me.

I got defensive.

He pressed on.

I shot him hate-you-forever stares.

He pressed on.

I said, Yeah, yeah, I get it.

He pressed on.

I stopped listening.

Poor Nige…He pressed on.

He was, I realize now, one of the most truthful people I’ve ever known, and he knew a secret about truth that many people are unwilling to accept: it’s usually painful. He wanted me to believe in myself, but that belief could never be based on false promises or fake compliments. The royal road to mastery was paved with facts.

Not that he was categorically opposed to compliments. One day, almost in passing, he said that I appeared to lack any…fear. You’re not terribly concerned, if I may say, Lieutenant Wales, with dying.

That’s true.

I explained that I hadn’t been afraid of death since the age of twelve.

He nodded once. He got it. We moved on.

34.

Nige eventually released me, set me free like a wounded bird restored to health, and with his certification the Army pronounced me ready to fly Apaches.

But nope—it was a trick. I wasn’t going to fly Apaches. I was going to sit in a windowless classroom and read about Apaches.

I thought: Could anything be crueler? Promise me a helicopter, hand me a stack of homework?

The course lasted three months, during which I nearly went insane. Every night I’d slump back to my cell-like room in the officers’ mess and vent to a mate on the phone, or else to my bodyguard. I considered leaving the course altogether. I’d never even wanted to fly Apaches, I said to everyone, petulantly. I wanted to fly the Lynx. It was simpler to learn, and I’d get back to the war faster. But my commanding officer, Colonel David Meyer, quashed that idea. Not a chance, Harry.

Why, Colonel?

Because you’ve had operational ground experience in reconnaissance, you were a very fine FAC, and you’re a bloody good pilot. You’re going to fly Apaches.

But—

I can tell from the way you fly, the way you read the ground, this is what you were meant to do.

Meant to do? The course was torture!