Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier (10 page)

Almost an hour later a fourth bomb exploded on a London bus at Tavistock Square. By that time, word was slowly surfacing about an event taking place involving large casualties. No one had mentioned the ‘b’ word yet. The media was mostly reporting that there had been a power surge, as a result of which trains had derailed. When the Tavistock Square bomb went off, everybody knew that London was under attack.

Immediately we were put on the highest alert. Everyone was ordered to their rooms to collect their fighting equipment. Webbing (which holds a soldier’s essential kit, such as ammo, water and rations), combat helmets and even camouflage paint were all collected and taken down to the assembly point on the main square. The commanding officer and his few senior
officers
were now using the bar and Sky News as their single source for intelligence. Nobody really had a clue what was going on. The images on TV showed hundreds of injured people emerging from a number of tube stations around the capital, causing much confusion and giving the impression that more bombs had gone off than actually had. As the colonel was drawing up his battle plans in the bar in front of the TV, I was sat in my full combats on top of my green rucksack, complete with sleeping bag and emergency rations, waiting to collect my identity tags and sign a quick will.

A large stockpile of morphine injections was brought to the square, ready to be handed out to each man. I even had my gas mask attached to my person, just in case. The final addition was my rifle, which had lain in the armoury quite unused for some time. For a few very scary hours it felt like I was actually going to war on the streets of my own capital city, in England, of all places.

While I was sat on the square thinking about the awful things that were going on just down the road from us, my mobile phone
rang. Mum had heard the news, like everyone else in the country, and was calling, very much in a panic, to check I was safe. I told her I was, but couldn’t guarantee for how long. I’d been put in the ‘fifteen-minute notice to move’ section, which meant we’d be the first out of the gate when the call came. This bit of
information
didn’t do Mum’s nerves any good at all.

When we were called on the square and given a best picture of what had happened earlier in the morning, the colonel had told us to prepare for the worst and that British soldiers would be patrolling the streets of London before the day was out. We, and I certainly, felt that we were going to have to take over from the police and stop these attackers with brute force. It was still very unclear if the bombings had stopped.

As it turned out, the fourth explosion was the last of them. We all sat on the square with our kit for the call that never came. I think it would have been a very bold step for Tony Blair to have deployed soldiers carrying rifles onto London streets that morning, but we honestly expected him to do so. At about 4 p.m. we got the call to stand down. I was more than ready to take my kit off and relax but, unfortunately, the regiment had an escort to prepare for and that meant finishing off the washing of all the horses. It was incredible to return to our normal duties
considering
the day we’d all had signing wills and drawing out our rifles, but life had to continue.

In the days that followed, we prepared for the VE Day
celebrations
with no changes to plan. Early on, it was thought that the procession would be cancelled. To have the Queen in an
open-top
carriage only days after her city had been blasted was an obvious risk, but the Queen was not for altering her plans and, in a great show of defiance, we escorted her from the palace to the celebrations on Horse Guards as if the week had been no different from any other. Escorting the Queen that Sunday afternoon
was one of the proudest and most important jobs I ever carried out within the ceremonial regiment. There was a real worry and a relevant threat of harm to the royal party, and this resounded as we left the barracks and rode along to the palace. We didn’t really know what we were riding into, but it didn’t matter. We proudly carried Her Majesty that day, showing the world that life went on in London. The actions of a few would not deter us from our important traditions.

London life continued, as did the guards and the state escorts for Her Majesty. My nights out also continued, once I’d brushed myself down after the gay bashing. I’d mostly go out with my new friend Ange, who worked with the vet looking after the horses in camp. In a complete surprise, out of absolutely nowhere, Tim, my old riding instructor, pulled me aside to tell me that he’d been hiding a big secret for some time. The moment he started telling me his news, I knew what was coming. Tim was gay and finally ready to tell people about it. Suddenly I had a good friend who was not only with me in the regiment but gay and very happy for the world to know. Tim, Ange and I became great buddies and would often frequent the clubs and bars of Soho.

There had been something missing in my life to that point, something that I hadn’t even considered. I’d never had a boyfriend. While out one night with Ange and Tim, I met a guy who I quite liked. The feeling seemed to be mutual but instead of him wanting to come back to the barracks with me, or vice versa, he simply insisted on us meeting again in the days that followed.

It was the first time I’d ever been turned down and also the first time I was heading home to bed without a new friend. It really struck a chord.

His name was Steven, and to this day I refer to him as the one that got away. Steven liked me and wanted to spend time with me, but he certainly wasn’t about to jump into bed with
me. He used to say he knew nothing about me so why would he want to just fuck me? He rang me the day after I met him and asked when I was next free. We made our arrangements to meet the following evening in Leicester Square. I was going on my first ever date and, boy, was I excited. I realised I wanted a boyfriend. I wanted the attention and the love that came with having a relationship.

When we met the following evening, Steven asked me if I liked ABBA, to which I instinctively nodded; in response he pulled out two tickets to
Mamma Mia!

‘We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.’

Of course I wanted to go. I’d spent over a year in London and not seen a single show. I was beyond thrilled.

Steven, who was about three years older than me and a paramedic, was the complete gentleman. No man had ever spent real money on me. Nobody had ever bought me anything other than a vodka and coke, and here he was splashing the cash. After the show we grabbed some food and ended the night with a few beers. It was the first time I’d been out and not been interested in anybody but the person I was standing with. It was a perfect date, well, when you’re eighteen years old anyway. There were far worse places we could have gone to and it ranks right up there as one of the best dates I’ve ever been on.

Steven was very interested in my job and I think at first he wasn’t fully sure I was telling the truth. Eventually he believed me and I offered to show him behind the scenes at Whitehall when I was next on guard. I also offered him a look at life in the barracks later that night but, as before, he outright refused to return to camp with me for sex. Though I really admired him for his decision I just wanted to rip his clothes off.

We carried on meeting for drinks for a few weeks after, but still we stayed out of the bedroom. Soon he stopped replying to
my texts and stopped answering the phone. Clearly Steven had had other thoughts and didn’t want or need an eighteen-year-old soldier. This was my first ever taste of rejection and I didn’t like it. I really fancied him, but he just didn’t fancy me. Perhaps it was a lesson I needed to learn. My ego had become rather inflated and I almost thought I could have anybody I wanted; no guy had ever turned me down before Steven. I realised that I was human after all. I cheered myself up by hitting the scene with Tim and Ange, finishing the night in somebody’s flat in some unexpected part of the city. Life went on.

Enjoying the scene as I did, I’d made many friends, including people I hadn’t slept with – or wanted to, for that matter. It was quite nice walking into a venue and catching up with someone who hadn’t seen my embarrassing Chinese tattoo, added to the top of my left leg at the age of fifteen, who didn’t know what I looked like with my clothes off. One such friend was a policeman called Stuart. He was an early friend and is still someone I see often today. I loved going out with my soldier buddies but
sometimes
it was quite nice to go out with ‘normal’ people, too. Stuart was single and about twelve years my senior and we shared many nights out together. Stuart was also responsible for introducing me to a lot of other gay people and to the many other gay venues London had to offer. One such place was in Vauxhall where I was introduced to an entirely new crowd of people. I had nothing against the pop scene in the West End, but it was getting a little awkward bumping into guys I’d spent the night with and not contacted afterwards. In Vauxhall, I could start all over again.

C
hristmas 2005 was soon upon us. Christmases in the army are magical; whether serving abroad or, like me, in the capital, everyone comes together and celebrates the end of a long and demanding year.

The ethos of community and camaraderie is heightened as the season’s festivities get into full swing. The regimental carol service usually signifies the start of this period and the troopers’ Christmas lunch follows, the only occasion in the calendar when troopers are waited on by the senior ranks, before the
customary
food fight between us and the Tins. The seniors are usually forced to abandon the service to avoid being hit in the head with a roast potato. Then it’s time for Christmas leave, with half of the regiment heading home and the other half covering duties – the palace still needs guarding over the Christmas holidays. Before New Year’s Eve, those who spend Christmas on leave come back to allow the others to head home for the rest of the festive season. The system works well. I used to opt for Christmas off, celebrating in Wales with my family, and then return to London to work over the New Year period, which always placed me in the capital for my birthday on New Year’s Day.

That year I spent New Year’s Eve in Trafalgar Square with my gay friends, having spent the previous two weeks on leave at
home with my folks. I loved catching up with them all, but it was a million miles away from my life in the city and they still didn’t know about my sexuality. I couldn’t wait to get back to London on 27 December. How long would I keep this secret from them?

As soon as New Year was over and 2006 was underway, work returned to normal, as did my regular nights out. Life was exactly the same as it had been for the previous year, and it was starting to take its toll on me.

One night out, I remember talking to Stuart about the
experience
I’d had with Steven the previous year. I told him how excited I was to have an actual love interest and, as short a relationship as it was, I had felt better in those three weeks than I had ever done before. Stuart, who adored the gay scene and had quite a bit of experience, explained to me that going out and getting drunk and then ‘getting fucked’ wasn’t the be-all and end-all. As good as it was, there was more to life than just being a ‘slag’. He
introduced
me to an online dating site called Gaydar, where you could search online for the gay man of your choice, arrange a date and then take it from there. However, the truth was that most men on there were actually just looking for sex from the comfort of their living room instead of in a bar in Vauxhall. Still, I agreed to get on there and give it a go.

I didn’t own a computer back then, so Stu let me use his at his flat in London Bridge. I made a profile and uploaded some pictures to help persuade potential onlookers. Astonishingly, people sent me messages almost instantly. I was asked things like ‘Are you a top?’ or ‘Are you into BDSM?’ and once just the simple word ‘Piss?’

I had no idea what any of this meant and I’m very grateful to my pal Stuart for taking half an hour to explain fully what all these weird and wonderful expressions meant. There was suddenly a whole new world out there – and quite a scary one
at that. In 2006, there was still a little bit of taboo surrounding online dating and meeting strangers off the web but as my life was risqué enough already, I didn’t really get too shocked by the things I became exposed to in this strange new technical world of hooking up with other men.

I used the internet terminal in the bar back at camp to keep up with my messages on Gaydar but two weeks into the experience, I hadn’t been asked out on a proper date once. This was most frustrating. After a quick initial exchange on the site, however, I had met the same guy three times in Finsbury Park for casual sex. I was joining in with the very thing I wasn’t looking for. I began to find it all a little too much.

One morning I woke early as always and a little hungover. As I scraped the slight stubble off my face with a razor, I noticed a strange sensation down below. Giving myself a quick scratch, I didn’t ponder over it; I was in a rush to get sorted for work. I jumped in the shower and, as usual, began to pee. Instantly I felt the same sensation, only this time it was a hundred times worse. I’d never experienced a pain like it in all my life. It was
unbearable
. There was something very wrong.

I dried myself, avoiding my groin as much as possible, got dressed and headed down to the stables. I couldn’t begin to
imagine
what was wrong with me. I’d never had any pain like that down there before in my life. What the hell was it?

Once at the stables I told my corporal of horse that I needed to see the doctor. He rang ahead to the medical centre and told them I’d be across shortly. Sitting in the waiting room, a number of fellow sick soldiers sat beside me, I glanced over the many leaflets that littered the tables and walls. My eyes kept
automatically
looking towards the harrowing pictures of ‘STIs’ and ‘sexual health’, and I began to wonder if my sudden pain during peeing was down to my sex life. Panicking, I thought of a million reasons
why it couldn’t possibly be something like that but I was fooling myself. There was one clear reason why it could have been: I’d been so foolish in recent weeks. I’d been casually meeting more guys than ever and not paying any attention to my own
well-being
. My stupid behaviour had caught up with me.

It turned out that I was quite ill indeed. I had to go to a special hospital in Hammersmith and get treatment, along with a number of other tests, and was taken immediately by a driver from the barracks. Travelling to hospital, I wanted to call Mum and tell her that I wasn’t very well. Whenever I’d been ill in the past, Mum would look after me until I was better. But I knew I couldn’t call her. I knew that she’d ask too many questions. I hated myself for the situation I was in. I hated that I wasn’t able to pick up the phone and have an honest conversation with the one person in the world I should have been able to.

The doctor put me through a lot of very unpleasant tests to find out exactly what was wrong with me. It was an
experience
I didn’t want to go through again. My penis was in so much pain already, the things he stuck into me made the whole thing unimaginable.

‘Have you taken an HIV test recently?’ Recently? I’d never taken one in my entire life!

‘How many sexual partners have you had in the past six months?’ Dozens of different faces dashed through my mind. I lied and told him that there’d been only three.

‘Three in six months is an awful lot. You have to be more
careful
. You should have been tested.’

The doctor was doing a very good job of making me feel extremely bad about myself. Today, I’m thankful he did. I needed to be told. Something like this had needed to happen to make me understand what I was doing to myself.

I waited for the result of my HIV check fully hating myself
and the lifestyle I had chosen to lead. I remember thinking that nobody had forced me into making the choices I had done. Nobody was encouraging me to hit the bottle as much as I did, then lose control and head home with strangers. Somewhere, I’d missed the stop sign. Waiting to find out if I was HIV-positive was the lowest point of my entire life. Nineteen years old. Was I about to find out I was dying?

The doctor opened a door and called me in. I braced myself. Inside his room a lady sat waiting on a chair. She shook my hand and introduced herself as a sexual health counsellor. I was sure I was about to receive some devastating news. My heart sank and I began to shake. Everyone was so serious.

‘Mr Wharton, you aren’t very well. You have gonorrhoea.’

Gonorrhoea? I had gonorrhoea! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I knew exactly what it was from the platoon sergeant’s sexual health lessons back in Harrogate. How could I be so careless?

‘We can treat you today. We can sort that out here, so don’t panic.’ I realised that he was building himself up to the main event. The HIV result. The woman kept looking at me and giving me sympathetic nods of reassurance. I considered walking out right then. I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to hear the news I was about to get.

‘We’ve tested your blood and the result has come back
negative
.’ For some strange reason, I took negative as something bad, as something negative in itself and gave a loud gasp. For a second I thought the doctor was telling me I was HIV-positive.

‘You’re extremely lucky. You have to be more careful. This lady is going to spend some time with you discussing your sexual behaviour.’

The doctor gave me an injection for my little problem and I spent the next hour with the sexual health counsellor discussing
the stupid things I was doing and the risks I was putting myself in.

I left the hospital in a complete mess. I called the only person in the world I could be honest and talk the whole thing through with: Faulkner. Faulkner, like the counsellor, did an equally good job of underlining how idiotic I’d been. He told me that I had to protect myself and take care. He told me off like a father would. He’s always been effective at grounding people.

Following the health scare, I took a few weeks off my
night-time
antics. I concentrated on work more and simply returned to my room and watched movies in my spare time. The doctor had made it very clear that I wasn’t to have sex with anyone for a couple of weeks, which suited me as I was in no mood to jump straight back into bed with my old habits. I needed to process where I was in life. I was still a very unworldly nineteen-year-old, but I was sensible enough to know that I wouldn’t make it to twenty-one if I didn’t get my act together. It was an incredible contrast knowing that in one sense I was a complete failure in terms of my own personal development, but in another, in my professional manner, I was an extremely decent royal guard. Behind the breastplate and under the helmet I wore on a daily basis in the public eye, I was actually a complete disaster.

Addiction has an incredible hold on its sufferers. I thought I’d simply erase all the bad parts of my life and return to the old James, the James that didn’t need to head out on a nightly basis and drink himself into such a state he could barely string a sentence together. I found myself isolated: I had nobody to support me throughout this crucial stage. My friends, however brilliant, couldn’t sort my problems out for me. Neither Faulkner nor Stuart had the answers to my issues. Soon the inevitable occurred: I ventured back onto the scene and it welcomed me back with open arms.

Spring dawned and with it the start of the ‘silly season’ at the mounted regiment. As silly seasons go, 2006 was a pretty
run-of
-the-mill year in terms of how busy we were putting on escorts. I looked forward to the days getting longer. Heading to the stables at six o’clock every morning was depressing enough and the darkness made it a thousand times worse.

Everyone in the army has to use all of their annual leave by the end of every March or risk losing the days they haven’t spent. In Knightsbridge, the regiment simply had too many duties and responsibilities to keep, and not enough manpower to allow every man his full entitlement of annual leave. In 2006 we were very lucky to have at the top of our command a corporal major who had the balls to tell the regiment to get lost. All his men were getting their annual leave.

I went to work one Thursday morning (with a terrible
hangover
) and was informed straight away that I’d be going home on leave later that day, and not returning until my annual leave days were all spent. I had seven days remaining. This never happened. Men in Knightsbridge just weren’t handed seven days’ leave out of the blue. I cashed in one of my three free-rail warrants and rang ahead to Wrexham, exclaiming I’d be home by the end of the day.

Mid-morning, I popped into the bar and logged onto Gaydar. I had a mission. I wanted to see how many profiles there were registered in Wrexham. I had an idea there’d be about three. I didn’t know anyone from my hometown who was gay;
nevertheless
, I searched in the hope that I’d find someone who’d like to meet up and perhaps be up for a bit of a laugh while I was home in the local area.

The search returned an incredible eighty profiles. I couldn’t
believe it. There were at least eighty gay men in Wrexham! I began to trawl through the profiles, spending a couple of judgemental seconds on each picture before clicking to the next. Amazingly, there was a lad on there who was in my year at school. I had no idea he was gay. I didn’t fancy him at all, but couldn’t help but send him a quick hello. He must have been very surprised to see a message from me.

Continuing the hunt, I eventually stumbled across a profile that immediately caught my attention: Thom from Wrexham, an eighteen-year-old hairdresser.

Considering the other profiles you’d find on Gaydar, this was like finding a diamond in a mountain of stone. He was so
youthful
and fresh looking, and looked like he was up for a drink and a dance, like I always was. It was nice to see a profile that had actually been put together with some thought. It wasn’t anything like mine; he’d actually taken the time to put some personal information down. He stated that he loved Kylie, had a passion for fashion and designer labels, and he loved his job as a trainee hairdresser in a salon in the town centre.