Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier (2 page)

T
hat was the promise I swore on an August afternoon back in 2003, standing on the step of adventure in North Wales, wondering what the next few weeks, months and years had in store for me.

Though I was probably more prepared than most, I still had no idea what I was letting myself in for. I didn’t know that I was about to embark on the greatest journey of my life, a
journey
that would see me visit some of the darkest holes earth has hidden away from the majority of its people. I didn’t know that in ten years’ time I’d be the happiest I’d ever been, openly gay and married to the love of my life, living in London with the most amazing friends imaginable. I certainly didn’t think that I would
meet the woman I’d just sworn to protect and give my life to … but it all came to pass.

Right then, all I knew was Wrexham, a handful of friends and a girlfriend I was with to keep face and fit in. I’d never really wanted a girlfriend nor needed one, but most of the older guys in the cadets had one and when a girl asked me out, I said yes for completely the wrong reasons.

Her name was Kate and we’d been brilliant friends in the Army Cadet Force. As the time approached for me to leave North Wales and join the men and women of the British Army, she’d declared her love for me and we just became a couple. As lovely a person as she was, I never did feel right with her, particularly when we were alone and close. It was nothing compared to the feelings I’d experienced with Aaron on our weekends together. Kate and I even had a physical relationship, but it was something I really didn’t feel any good at. Sex was something I just didn’t enjoy. The unhappiness that befell me during those few days was noticeable to all. I didn’t like having sex with Kate and I didn’t really fancy her, which struck me as odd because she was a very pretty girl. I kept thinking back to Aaron and even wondered what sex would be like with him. I finally began to recognise my sexuality. I was gay. I was gay and was about to become a soldier. I didn’t think the two could go hand in hand. I had absolutely nobody to talk to. I couldn’t chat with Mum. How could I
possibly
discuss something as personal as my sexuality with my own mother? It was a very lonely time for me but I just kept it all to myself.

The long process of joining the army had started almost twelve months before. At the very earliest opportunity, I’d received my application form and filled it in at once. At fifteen years and nine months, the final part of the form was a permission pro forma which needed to be signed by my parents. Mum was not
at all sure about signing me up and told me to carefully consider what this actually meant for me. In school, my head teacher Mr Davies desperately wanted me to go to college and consider a future in teaching, but I was certain that I wanted to join the army. All my friends had done so; I felt I was missing out. I’d spent the last twelve months longing for them. They’d all joined up and become real soldiers and real men – it was my turn to do the same.

Mum spent many an hour in the army careers office talking through, again and again, exactly what it was I was being signed up to do. They reassured her that there was no way I’d be going off to fight anywhere until I was at least eighteen. Also, they pointed out, there wasn’t much going on in the world and that it was unlikely there’d even be a war for me to fight by the time I was old enough anyway. There was trouble in Afghanistan, but that barely made the news by 2003.

The recruitment team finally proposed a solution that made both Mum and me happy. I was to go to the Army Foundation College in Harrogate, North Yorkshire, for twelve months on a part-sixth form, part-basic training basis. They billed it as a fancy boarding school, which it kind of was.

She signed the papers and I was given dates to attend ‘recruit selection’, a two-day stay at a barracks during which I’d be tested physically and mentally to see if I was a suitable candidate for the army. I had two months to prepare.

Every day I’d train, whether out running in the many parks surrounding Gwersyllt, the village in which I lived, or at the local gym which I’d voluntarily painted the previous year. My life was completely placed on hold; I had to pass these tests. My GCSE revision was cancelled as the army was prepared to take me on regardless. Nothing else mattered.

The two months flew past and soon the time came for me to
go to selection. The recruitment office gave me a travel warrant which I exchanged for train tickets to a place called Lichfield. Lichfield was near Birmingham and felt like a million miles away from the rural village of Gwersyllt. I was beyond excited getting on the train that morning in my new shirt and trousers. Phil said he didn’t have a tie that matched my shirt (whatever that meant) so I had money to buy a new one on the way. Mum cried tears of hope and sadness as she waved me goodbye that morning.

The first part of the process was a complete full-body medical. I’d heard lots of stories about this from the many friends who’d been through the process before me and I was nervous about the dreaded ‘cough and drop’ examination. Sixteen-year-olds like to keep their private parts private.

After about an hour with one of the doctors, I progressed through to the next phase: leadership. Half of the potential recruits were already heading home after failing to satisfy the doctors. I hoped it was plain sailing for me now. I’d prepared so much.

After the leadership task, something I’d practised for in the army cadets, it was on to the more physically challenging assessments. Pull-ups, press-ups, walking with heavy weights and something called a ‘body mass check’. I was still on course for success.

We had the chance to mix with recruits who were some months ahead of us at the end of day one, which was a great opportunity to ask any questions and find out more about the harshness of basic training. We had to wear numbered bibs constantly as there was always an assessor watching over us. In the evening I, of course, didn’t attempt to buy a drink in the bar – underage drinking would be a certain failure. You’d be surprised how many people fail because of that mistake.

We were taken back to our accommodation at about 11 p.m.,
which was later than I’d normally be allowed to stay up on a school night. I felt incredibly grown-up all of a sudden. My school buddies would be getting up in the morning and walking to school; I was away securing a different future. If I could just pass selection and be offered a job the following morning I’d be set for life; I’d be better than those boys who’d teased me for years on the playground for going to cadets.

I remember being excited but quite scared that night. I was by far the youngest person on selection. I was surrounded by fully grown men and there I was, skinny, acne-ridden, wearing clothes my mother had bought for me. I was nervous in the showers but still felt I had to act confidently. We were being watched by assessors constantly. I hoped to God they would like me and offer me a job. I’d pinned all my hopes on it.

The big morning arrived and two barriers stood between me and a potential lifetime in the British Army: a 1.5-mile best-effort timed run and a formal interview with a recruitment officer, who at the end of the process would tell you whether or not you were going to become a soldier.

I showered and then shaved, something I didn’t really need to do, and prepared myself for the most nerve-racking few hours of my life. Seventy hopefuls had started the previous morning; about thirty of us remained twenty-four hours later.

I stood at the beginning of the 1.5-mile circuit, so scared my knees were visibly shaking. ‘Please God let me run quickly,’ I remember thinking again and again.

The whistle blew and we were off. And at a fast pace.

The training I’d put myself through, which had been watched closely by my cadet leader, Captain Bowles, was very solitary. I found it impossible to find a training partner to run with every day; most teenagers would rather play on their PlayStation, I guess. This was the first time I’d run 1.5 miles with other people.
My pacing was completely off compared to the majority; I had to run a lot faster just to keep up with these men.

The laps went by and soon we were on the home straight. Amazingly, some people had dropped out. I couldn’t believe they were so unprepared. It was an instant failure to just give up. I crossed the line in about the middle section of the group. Ten minutes flat. It was the fastest I’d ever run. Surely I’d done enough to guarantee employment.

I showered again and donned my new suit for the main
interview
. I was looking about as good as a sixteen-year-old kid with acne could look.

As we sat in the waiting room for hours, amusingly the staff played episodes of
Blackadder Goes Forth
for us to relax to. As funny as I find that particular comedy these days, I was completely uninterested in the distraction. I do remember
thinking
that the officer conducting the interview could be someone just like Stephen Fry’s General Melchett. The thought worried me somewhat.

As fate would have it, I was the very last person they called in for the interview. The five or so potential recruits that were called in before me had all been told they were unsuitable and that the army wasn’t for them. I was sure my fate was sealed. Terrified, I almost left before facing the truth.

The day before I went away to Lichfield, some of the boys in school had mocked the thought of me becoming a soldier. They told me the army would laugh in my face and tell me to get lost. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to go back to school the following day and tell them that they were right.

I was called forward and taken up some stairs to a quiet room. Once there, a senior major stood up and shook my hand.

‘Mr Wharton. How d’you think you’ve done?’

I thought this might be the first question. How on earth do
you answer something like that? Should I go in confidently or should I use a bit of humility? How’s a sixteen-year-old supposed to know the answer?

‘Honestly, I think I could have shown myself in a better light throughout the leadership tasks.’ I was clutching at straws really. What I wanted to say was I thought I’d done amazing, all things considered. Thankfully, I used some judgement.

‘Yes, I agree… You were a little quiet throughout that stage, but considering your age and who you were up against, we marked you very highly.’ Utter relief. ‘There is something we are a little concerned about, however…’ My heart dropped. ‘You should be strides ahead of everyone in the 1.5-mile run. You’re young, slim, fit and healthy. We’d have expected sub-nine minutes!’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The ten minutes I’d run the distance in was by far the fastest I’d ever done it. I was so proud. To hear it was what they were least impressed by was crushing. I felt my palms go moist and my collar become tight.

After some time listening to the major lecture me on how very difficult training would be for me and ultimately how
underprepared
he thought I was, he looked up and smiled.

‘We think you’re made of strong stuff and I’m delighted to be able to offer you a job!’

The feeling of utter pride was immeasurable. I had done it! I was to become a soldier. I thought of the idiots in school who hadn’t been through what I just had. They didn’t have a job lined up. They weren’t on their way to becoming soldiers. The jubilation I felt shaking the hand of the man who’d just given me a career was something I’d never felt before. Skinny James Wharton from a tiny village in Wales was to become a soldier. I’d done it.

I phoned Mum from outside the office to tell her the good news. I was expecting a great cheer of joy, but now I know why she didn’t cry with glee. She had just witnessed her youngest
child grow up and spread his wings. I’d be leaving home soon to start my new life.

In the weeks that followed, against the will of almost
everybody
– including the army – I completely took my mind off my forthcoming exams. It just didn’t seem to matter to me any longer. Life was going to be amazing and I was revelling in the fame of being the quiet boy in school who was going to be a real soldier.

But, unexpectedly, everything changed.

On 19 March 2003, less than a month after I’d been
guaranteed
a job with the army, the United Kingdom, alongside the United States, invaded Iraq and sent the nation and its military to war: a dramatic time for the country but, for my household in particular, it was an utter disaster.

Overnight, my future with the army turned from being that of excitement and adventure to that of dread and uncertainty. Mum couldn’t believe it and fell ill; her MS had a nasty habit of attacking her when she was most upset and vulnerable. She was bedbound for over a week and in much pain. I felt it was all my fault. I also felt I’d made a big mistake in signing up to the army on the eve of the greatest invasion our country had undertaken since D-Day. What the hell was about to happen to me?

As if by fate, on the very day we went to war, a letter dropped through our door addressed to me from the Ministry of Defence. It was my joining orders and instructions. It also contained my army number, which I was to learn, and my terms of service. This was supposed to be a huge moment of pride, but I couldn’t help but feel my life was now on a countdown, ending with me being shot in a land far, far away.

I was to turn up at the Army Foundation College in Harrogate on 7 September, a whole five months away, and I would begin by earning
£
250 per week.
£
250 per week! That was more money than I’d ever had before. Wow, it was
£
1,000 a month. Even
Mum thought it was too much for a sixteen-year-old. What on earth would I do with that much money? I wish
£
1,000 was as desirable today as it was when I was sixteen.