#lord mountbatten

"Mountbatten recalled: ‘They were all charming, every one of them. Even that crazy lunatic my aunt the Empress [of Russia] was absolutely sweet and charming.’.. Mountbatten also at one point overheard his father say to his mother (for Victoria was always expected to put everything right), ‘Alicky is absolutely mad—she’s going to cause a revolution. Can’t you do anything?’ And Dickie’s mother replied, ‘Well, I am doing all I can,’ knowing only too well the hard line that Alicky was forcing her husband to take towards any sort of reform, and the influence Rasputin held over her. But, alas, for once it was not enough. And it was the last time that Dickie would see his beautiful Marie, or the rest of the Russian royal family".

Physique: Average Build Height: 5'11" (180 cm)

Admiral of the Fleet Louis Francis Albert Victor Nicholas Mountbatten, 1st Earl Mountbatten of Burma (born Prince Louis of Battenberg; 25 June 1900 – 27 August 1979; aged 79), commonly known as Lord Mountbatten, was a British statesman, Royal Navy officer and close relative of the British royal family. He was born in the United Kingdom to the prominent Battenberg family. He was a maternal uncle of Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, and a second cousin of King George VI.

He served in the Royal Navy during World War I and became Supreme Allied Commander, South East Asia Command, in World War II. He was the last Viceroy of India, overseeing the 1947 Partition, and briefly the first Governor-General of India. Mountbatten commanded HMS Kelly and HMS Illustrious, led raids on St Nazaire and Dieppe, and recaptured Burma and Singapore. He later served as commander-in-chief of the Mediterranean Fleet, First Sea Lord (1955–1959), and chief of the Defence Staff until 1965. In 1979, Mountbatten was assassinated by the IRA in Ireland.

Mountbatten attended the Royal Naval College, Osborne, before entering the Royal Navy in 1916. He saw action during the closing phase of the First World War, and after the war briefly attended Christ's College, Cambridge. During the interwar period, Mountbatten continued to pursue his naval career, specializing in naval communications. Following the outbreak of the Second World War, he commanded the destroyer HMS Kelly and the 5th Destroyer Flotilla. He saw considerable action in Norway, in the English Channel, and in the Mediterranean. In August 1941, he received command of the aircraft carrier HMS Illustrious. He was appointed chief of Combined Operations and a member of the Chiefs of Staff Committee in early 1942, and organized the raids on St Nazaire and Dieppe. In August 1943, Mountbatten became Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia Command and oversaw the recapture of Burma and Singapore from the Japanese by the end of 1945. For his service during the war, Mountbatten was created viscount in 1946 and earl the following year.

Oh.. he could catch a dick, and allegedly did, earning the nickname ‘Mountbottom’ with a supposed group of gay friends. Rumours of Mountbatten’s homosexuality have circulated for decades, with him allegedly had something of a fetish for uniforms — handsome young men in military uniforms (with high boots) and — beautiful boys in school uniform. OK, I can work with handsome men in military uniforms BUT the other has got to go.

He was married to Edwina Ashley, with whom he had two daughters. After Edwina’s death in 1960, he had relationships with several individuals, including actress Shirley MacLaine. Allegations of Mountbatten’s homosexuality and inappropriate behavior surfaced in 2019, supported by FBI files from the 1940s citing his and Edwina’s “low morals” and claims of his “perversion for young boys.”

Mountbatten was a strong influence in the upbringing of his great-nephew, the future King Charles III, and later as a mentor – with Charles describing Mountbatten as the ‘grandfather I never had’.

In August 1979, Mountbatten was assassinated by a bomb planted aboard his fishing boat in Mullaghmore, County Sligo, Ireland, by members of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. He received a ceremonial funeral at Westminster Abbey and was buried in Romsey Abbey in Hampshire.

Mid-October brought a brisk chill to London, the trees in Green Park shedding their leaves in earnest now. Charles stared out of the car window, his mind not on the morning's ceremonies or the upcoming meetings at the palace, but on the evening ahead. After two weeks of stolen telephone conversations and letters that could never quite capture what needed to be said, he would see Camilla again.

The memory of their weekend at Broadlands remained vivid—the perfect autumn day spent walking hand in hand through the grounds, the rainy Sunday curled before the library fire, the whispered confessions and passionate embraces that had sustained him through these weeks apart. He found himself smiling at the recollection of Lord Mountbatten's conveniently timed absence.

He straightened his uniform, mentally preparing himself for the day's royal engagements. A series of tedious meetings awaited him, including one with his father and Lord Mountbatten later that afternoon. His naval reassignment for December had been on the horizon for months, and today he would finally learn which ship would be his next posting. Charles hoped for something that would keep him reasonably close to home. Anything that would allow him to maintain some contact with Camilla.

The palace corridors seemed interminable as Charles made his way to his father's study after a day of official functions. He found Prince Philip standing by the window, deep in conversation with Lord Mountbatten. Both men turned as he entered.

"Ah, Charles," his father said, gesturing him forward. "Right on time. How was the reception for the Commonwealth ambassadors?"

"Fine," Charles replied, his tone clipped. "My equerry mentioned I'd learn about my next ship assignment today."

"Indeed," Mountbatten said, a smile playing at his lips that Charles immediately distrusted. "We've finalized your next posting."

Charles took the offered seat, noting the exchange of glances between his father and great-uncle. Something in their manner put him instantly on alert.

"You'll be joining HMS Minerva in December," Philip stated. "Leander-class frigate, excellent officers."

Charles nodded slowly. The ship itself wasn't the issue; Minerva had a fine reputation. "And her deployment?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"She'll be in Devonport briefly for final preparations," Mountbatten replied, "then Plymouth and then deployed to the Caribbean."

The Caribbean. Charles felt his stomach tighten.

"For how long?" he asked, his voice carefully controlled.

"Six months minimum," Mountbatten replied. "Possibly extending to nine or twelve, depending on operational requirements."

Nine to twelve months. The words struck Charles like a physical blow. Nine to twelve months away from England, away from Camilla. Nine to twelve months of letters that would take weeks to arrive, of no telephone calls, of wondering who she might be with, what she might be doing...

"This is an excellent opportunity," his father was saying. "Proper command experience. Essential for your naval career."

"My naval career," Charles repeated, his voice rising sharply. "I'd hoped for something closer to home."

"The Caribbean assignment was specifically requested for you," Philip cut in. "The diplomatic value of having you in that region cannot be overstated."

"Of course," Charles said bitterly. "The Crown's interests once again take precedence over any personal considerations."

Philip's expression hardened. "Mind your tone. You've known for months that your next posting would be determined by the Admiralty's needs, not your social calendar."

"Social calendar?" Charles stood abruptly, his carefully maintained composure finally cracking. "Is that what you think this is about? My 'social calendar'? I had hoped—foolishly, apparently—that after fulfilling every duty asked of me, I might be granted some small consideration in where I serve next!"

"Charles," Mountbatten interjected, his tone placating, "you've always known service to the Crown means—"

"Don't," Charles snapped, turning to his great-uncle with blazing eyes. "Don't you dare lecture me about duty when you've spent my entire life maneuvering me like a chess piece on your personal board."

Philip rose to his feet, his face flushing dark red. "That's quite enough! You sound like a petulant schoolboy, not a naval officer. This assignment is an honor."

"An honor!" Charles laughed, the sound brittle and harsh. "How convenient that what serves the monarchy's interests is always framed as an honor for me. Nine to twelve months! Nine to twelve bloody months in the Caribbean, and I'm told about it as if I should be grateful?"

"You will report to Minerva in December as ordered," Philip stated flatly, his voice like steel. "Until then, you'll complete your helicopter training at Yeovilton."

"And once again, my life is arranged without any meaningful input from me," Charles seethed, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "Always at the mercy of schedules and duties and what's appropriate for the bloody Crown!"

"You forget yourself," Philip warned.

"No," Charles retorted, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "For once, I'm remembering myself. The person beneath the title that everyone seems determined to ignore."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the paintings on the adjacent wall. He stalked through the palace corridors, past startled staff who quickly averted their eyes from his thunderous expression. In the privacy of his own quarters, he swept a collection of ornamental paperweights from his desk, sending them crashing to the floor in a rare display of physical anger.

Nine to twelve months. After the agony of these past weeks with only occasional visits, how could he bear nine to twelve months without seeing her at all? And more critically, could their relationship survive such a prolonged separation? Camilla valued her independence, her freedom. Would she wait for him, or would she find comfort elsewhere during his absence?

By the time Charles arrived at Camilla's flat that evening, he had mastered his outward emotions, though the turmoil within remained undiminished. She opened the door with a warm smile that momentarily banished his dark thoughts.

"There you are at last," she said, pulling him inside. "I was beginning to think some royal emergency had kidnapped you away."

Her Belgravia flat was blessedly familiar—the comfortable furniture, the shelves of books, the scent of her perfume mingling with the flowers she always kept in the sitting room. Charles felt some of the tension leave his shoulders as she led him inside, her hand warm in his.

"Wine?" she offered. "I've opened a rather good Bordeaux. Or there's whisky if you prefer something stronger."

"Whisky," he replied. "Definitely whisky."

She gave him a searching look but said nothing as she poured him a generous measure. They settled on the sofa, Camilla curling her legs beneath her as she faced him.

"Tell me," she said simply.

"It's Minerva," he said. "My next ship. I found out today."

"And?" she prompted, sensing there was more.

"The Caribbean," he continued. "For six to twelve months, beginning in December."

Camilla's expression remained composed, but he saw the slight widening of her eyes, the barely perceptible tightening of her fingers around her wineglass. "I see."

"I knew I'd be reassigned," he said, the frustration evident in his voice. "But I'd hoped—I'd tried to arrange—something closer. Somewhere I could get back to London occasionally."

She nodded slowly. "Nine months is a very long time."

"Too long," Charles replied, setting down his glass and taking her hands. "Darling, I can't bear the thought of being away from you for so long. These past weeks have been difficult enough."

She squeezed his hands gently. "We knew your naval service would involve deployments, darling."

"This is different," he insisted. "This feels... deliberate. A way to ensure I'm as far from home as possible."

Camilla was silent for a moment, her eyes lowered to their joined hands. "What are our options? Can you refuse the posting?"

Charles laughed hollowly. "Refuse? My father would sooner see me court-martialed. No, there's no refusing."

"Then we must find a way through it," she said, raising her eyes to his. "We've managed these past weeks with letters and the occasional weekend."

Charles nodded, but internally he was consumed by doubts he couldn't bring himself to voice. Would Camilla grow tired of waiting? Would she find someone else—someone uncomplicated, someone available? The thought of returning after twelve months to find he'd lost her was unbearable. Yet he couldn't demand promises from her; that wasn't the nature of their relationship. She valued her freedom too much, and he respected her too much to ask for guarantees she might not wish to give.

As if reading his thoughts, Camilla leaned forward and kissed him gently. "Let's not borrow trouble from the future," she murmured against his lips. "Tonight we're here, together. That's what matters."

Her kiss deepened, and Charles responded with all the pent-up emotion of the day—his anger at his father, his fear of losing her, his desperate need to make these moments count. When they finally parted, she kept her forehead pressed to his.

"Come," she whispered, taking his hand and standing. "Let's not waste these precious hours."

Their lovemaking that night held an edge of desperation—as if they could somehow store up enough memories, enough sensations, to last through the coming separation. Afterward, as they lay in the warm darkness of her bedroom, Charles traced a heart on her shoulder.

"I've got helicopter training at Yeovilton next week," he said quietly. "And at the end of the month, I'm to visit West Berlin for three days."

"So busy," she murmured, her fingers playing with the hair on his chest. "Your royal duties never cease."

"It means we won't see each other again this month," he said, unable to keep the regret from his voice.

"Such is life...," she replied softly. There was no bitterness in her tone, just a pragmatic acceptance that both comforted and troubled him.

"The helicopter training is just a formality," he continued, needing to fill the silence. "A refresher from my Air Force days before Berlin."

She smiled against his skin. "I still find it unsettling to imagine you thousands of feet in the air in one of those machines."

"Says the woman who thinks nothing of galloping at full speed toward solid wooden obstacles," he teased, grateful for the momentary lightness.

"That's entirely different," she protested. "When I fall off a horse, the ground is right there."

They fell silent again, the reality of their imminent separation settling over them once more.

"I'll write," Charles promised, his lips against her hair. "Every day, if I can manage it."

"And I'll keep all your letters," Camilla replied. "Just as I do now."

Charles wanted desperately to ask if she would wait for him, if she could promise to be there when he returned. The words rose to his lips but died unspoken. Such demands weren't fair to her, and he feared her answer might not be the one he needed to hear.

Instead, he held her closer and whispered, "I love you," the words feeling simultaneously inadequate and too revealing.

"And I you," she replied, echoing their exchange at Broadlands. Her smile was warm but tinged with something unreadable—not quite sadness, not quite uncertainty, but a complex emotion he couldn't fully decipher.

They talked for another hour, making tentative plans, both aware of the fragility of such arrangements in the face of a nine-month separation. As the clock on her bedside table approached eleven, Charles reluctantly stirred.

"I should go," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "Early start tomorrow."

Camilla nodded, understanding the unspoken reality that the Prince of Wales could not be absent from the palace too late into the night without raising questions. She slipped from the bed and pulled on her robe, watching as he dressed with practiced efficiency.

Their goodbye at her door was painful in its restraint—no dramatic scenes, no tears, just the quiet intensity of two people who had found something precious and now faced its potential loss.

"Take care of yourself in Berlin," she said, straightening his tie in a gesture of casual intimacy that made his heart ache. "And don't fall out of any helicopters."

"I'll do my utmost to remain firmly inside all aircraft," he promised, trying to match her light tone.

He kissed her one last time, trying to memorize the feel of her lips against his, the scent of her skin, the warmth of her body pressed to his. Then he turned and walked to the waiting car, not allowing himself to look back.

As the car pulled away into the London night, Charles stared straight ahead, his expression carefully neutral for the benefit of the driver. Inside, however, his thoughts churned with a familiar frustration—the constant tension between duty and desire, between the life he was born to and the life he longed for.

Nine or twelve months on Minerva loomed before him like a sentence. Nine to twelve months without Camilla's laughter, her warmth, her uncanny ability to make him feel like simply Charles rather than the Prince of Wales.

Members of the British Royal Family in Canberra, Australia, in 1946.