Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier (21 page)

As Sammy walked in he sounded genuinely happy to see me. I wondered if he’d thought of me as much as I’d thought of him.
His eyes lit up and I jumped out of my chair to greet him. I had to tone it down somewhat as the squadron leader was pottering around the room. Sammy walked over to his radio and, like the previous week, I offered him a coffee.

‘Would you like one as well, sir?’ The squadron leader declined and left the room. It was just me and Sammy now.

As I busied myself with the two coffees, I looked over to see Sammy staring interestedly at the magazine I’d cleverly placed on the desk next to his radio. He didn’t look turned off by it. He was fidgeting with his equipment throughout. I coughed and he looked over; I just stood there smiling away waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘Have you been busy, Sammy?’

‘No, not really. Just carrying on as normal. How about you?’

Our conversation didn’t really go anywhere in particular and I could see Sammy’s eyes occasionally darting to the magazine.

‘Counting down the weeks ’til home now, hey?’ I adored the way he spoke. I’d never really been a huge fan of the American accent, but Sammy spoke so beautifully. He didn’t rush his words, unlike me. It was particularly warm in the ops room that day and Sammy took his shirt off and carried out his maintenance in just his light green, and very well-fitting, T-shirt. He had beautiful arms and I could see through his shirt just how very ripped he was. He must have seen me checking him out. I barely looked him in the eye but I could tell he was becoming more and more relaxed. And then, the moment I was hoping for.

‘Is this yours?’ he asked, touching the magazine.

‘Yeah. They send it to me every month. Not many magazines like that out here.’

‘No, there’s not.’

‘You can have it, if you like?’ I pushed it to him thinking he’d accept it, but of course he couldn’t. If he was found reading it
back at Bucca, he’d be on the first flight back to America, facing a dishonourable discharge. He declined the offer immediately.

‘You’re just allowed to have that, yeah?’

‘Yeah, nobody’s bothered here.’

‘That’s crazy. Are there any others?’

‘No, not here. Just me. But there are one or two who pretend they’re not, but I know are.’

‘We have “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”.’ He’d lowered his voice to a whisper.

‘I know. Are you—’ Right then, the door flung open and in walked my boss, Stevie.

‘What you doing here, James? Thought you were on at four?’

‘I’m just covering for Wilko while he goes to the gym. Everything OK?’

Stevie nodded towards Sammy, who looked startled by Steve’s sudden entrance.

‘I’m almost done here. I think next week I need to bring some more tools with me. There’s a fault with it.’

Stevie had sat down and began typing away at his computer. It was the end of our conversation. I was just about to ask Sammy if he was like me. I was sure he was about to tell me, but I didn’t get to finish my sentence. I was gutted.

Later that night, while on my own shift in the ops room, our conversation circled my mind. The tone of his voice throughout our chat was low. He was talking to me and saying things that he wasn’t at all comfortable in saying, things he’d obviously not been able to say in his own unit. I couldn’t get his beautiful face out of my mind and I wondered if he was thinking of me. He must have been gay. I was sure of it.

I pondered how difficult it must be for him. I had completely taken for granted the environment I was operating in. Sure, I’d had my problems, but they were few and far between. If somebody
didn’t like me, I simply kept myself out of their way. Sammy, if he was gay, had probably never told any of his fellow soldiers. He hadn’t had the chance to be his true self in the military simply because it wasn’t allowed. In my small room, I’d put posters on the wall of semi-clad popstars, my favourite footballers and casually left my gay lifestyle magazine lying around for anybody to read if they wished. I had nobody rooting through my mail, listening in to my phone calls or quizzing me about which internet sites I liked to use. I enjoyed a persecution-free working environment. Sammy, on the other hand, had to deal with the possibility of being
interrogated
like a criminal and then dishonoured for simply being the person he was. How could the US, the apparent leaders of the free world, do this to their own people? I felt very sorry for Sammy.

The following day I caught a flight to the COB to exchange a few broken radios and managed to catch up with Kempy, who’d remained back in Basra as a link man for us in the south. I told him about Sammy and, as always, he gave me his honest opinion over a milkshake. He told me I should go for it and forget about Thom. I wasn’t too sure what ‘it’ was, but I decided he was right. Time was ticking and I only had a precious hour a week with Sammy. I needed to make the time count.

If he hadn’t have been so gorgeous I would have let him be, but without even knowing it, Sammy was helping me out hugely after Thom. I hadn’t thought about him and his hippy boyfriend at all since Sammy had entered my life the week before.

I had some mail waiting for me upon my return to Umm that was a little bit surprising. Incredibly, Thom’s parents had decided to continue to write to me even after the break-up between me and their son. They mentioned the break-up in their letter but wanted to make it clear that they continued to wish me well while serving abroad. It was a wonderful gesture and it really cheered me up after a horrible ride back from Basra.

I’d looked in the occurrence book to see when Sammy was next due in camp and pondered how I might be able to talk with him more about his personal situation. I needed to establish the facts, whether or not Sammy was indeed gay and how he was finding serving in Iraq. I decided not to place myself on duty in the ops room for his arrival but, instead, I’d just turn up
unannounced
and offer him a milkshake at the shop in the compound.

I walked in a little after he was due to arrive but was surprised to see Cardiff sat alone in front of the radios. The Americans had cancelled; fortunately they had only put it back a day.

The following day I arrived at the ops room to find an American soldier busily unscrewing the back of a radio set. It was Sammy. We said our hellos and I messed around with the computer, making myself look busy. About ten minutes later, and after a few glances between us, I piped up and offered him a milkshake.

‘Sure! I’d love to. I was going to grab one after this anyway.’

We walked together to the other side of the compound and bought milkshakes. Sammy’s colleagues were sporadically dotted around our base either using the internet or waiting in the TV room. Two were even having a milkshake a few tables away from us, but we didn’t look out of place, just two soldiers sharing a drink and having a chat. It was quite a usual sight.

‘Are you gay, Sammy … like me?’

There was a long pause and, very quietly, Sammy said, ‘I’ve never talked about it.’

‘You can’t?’

‘I’d be thrown out. Sent home. My dad would never understand.’

I had no idea what to say to fill the silence. It wasn’t as if I could say, ‘Oh, just come out, it’ll all be fine’, because it wouldn’t be. Sammy’s situation was completely different to mine. I could stand on the table and scream to the whole of Umm Qasr I was
gay and proud, and not a thing could be said, whereas Sammy couldn’t even comprehend the same freedom. It was complete inequality. I was safe, he was not.

‘I wish there was something I could do, Sammy. I’m really sorry.’

‘Sucks!’ He managed a slight grin.

‘All I know is that, soon, it will change for you. It has to. And you don’t even know, but you’ve really helped me.’

‘I have?’

‘I hate it out here. I absolutely hate being in Iraq. I had a boyfriend but he gave up waiting for me.’

‘Holy shit. That really sucks!’

‘This is the last place I thought I’d meet someone like me – in the middle of Iraq! You’ve helped me forget about him a little.’

If we’d been anywhere but in the middle of an armed compound in the middle of Umm Qasr, I’d have grabbed him and given him a big hug. Our conversation was the most surreal but heartfelt chat between two gay men ever imaginable. Two soldiers, different armies, different times; equality for one, inequality for the other.

For six weeks or so we continued with our milkshake
conversations
. He’d ask me about London and about my coming out, I’d ask him about New York, his family life and his hopes for the future. After every meeting there was an air of regret that we’d have to wait a whole week or so before carrying on our chat. We’d become close over the space of just seven hours and I considered where our friendship would lead. There was no way in the world Sammy and I would ever have met if it hadn’t have been for Iraq and, in a way, I changed my opinion on the
circumstances
that had led to me being sat in my operations room at the southern tip of the country. I’d spent months mourning the demise of my relationship. Thom was now officially out of my life. Fate, I’d decided, had traded him in for a much more
pleasant
human being. I’d moved on.

T
he routine of life at Umm Qasr quickened the final part of our seven-month tour of Iraq, and before we knew it we were counting down the weeks and days until our return home to the UK.

As the final weeks ticked away, I felt deeply anxious about returning to a normal way of life. While away, I didn’t have any of the mundane day-to-day hassle that goes with a complex life in a busy city environment: no bills to pay, none of the hustle and bustle of having to shop, queuing for goods, paying for expensive fuel to sit in traffic for endless hours in London. Yes, I had become used to stress of a different nature, but as the time approached for us to return to the real world, the reality of normal life really played on my mind, especially as the library in Windsor was trying to take me to court for something as petty as failing to return a book before departing for Iraq.

There were a few moments of excitement throughout our final weeks at Umm. The highlight of every week was naturally the visit of Sammy from Camp Bucca, which I’d use to recharge my enthusiasm batteries. Sammy brought some happiness with him despite the repression he was faced with as a gay man in the American military.

One afternoon near the end of our time in Iraq, 1 Troop, my
old troop, were on the ground carrying out a patrol along the Kuwaiti border. I spoke with Gibbo and the other commanders over the radio as they went, plotting their positions regularly on the map. It was all very normal when all of a sudden something happened that grabbed my attention.

‘One, One, contact wait out…’ The dreaded words of hostile engagement. It was Gibbo. I shouted for the squadron leader.

‘Hello Zero, this is One, One. Contact at seventeen
thirty-four
, American call sign. BLUE ON BLUE!’ Everyone in the ops room looked at each other with horror. Gibbo had been shot at by American troops. The leader instantly picked up the American radio handset and screamed down it for attention. In the three months we’d been in Umm Qasr, I’d hardly seen the leader excited about anything; right then he was livid.

‘HELLO! THIS IS UMM QASR NORTH… HELLO! ANSWER THE FUCKING RADIO!’

Soon a voice could be heard over the crackly Yank radio. It was a voice I recognised instantly.

‘You have a call sign firing on British soldiers. Cease fire immediately!’

‘Erm… Can you confirm what grid this is at?’ The leader’s face went bright red. How could their ops room not know which one of their call signs was firing? The first thing we’d do if we’d started a firefight with someone is report back to base; even asking for permission to engage was pretty run-of-the-mill.

Gibbo came back over the network to say the shooting from the vehicle had stopped and they were now approaching them. I imagined, knowing Gibbo as I did, him strangling the commander of the US call sign in blind rage, but later he’d tell us how very gentleman-like the two commanders were with each other. Our regiment had had its unfair share of Blue-
on-Blue
incidents over the years, especially in Iraq. Thankfully this
incident ended without any bloodshed, but it could have been a very different outcome.

With our time in Iraq nearly up, we learned that our roles were to be taken over by members of the Royal Mercian Regiment and the squadron was to fly home in two movements. Stevie decided to put me and Cardiff on the first flight, which after a 24-hour stop-off in Cyprus would get me home on 6 December. The remaining members of A SQN would return two days later.

Sammy knew our weekly chats were coming to an end and as somebody who’s never been a fan of or any good at saying goodbye, I dreaded our final farewell. Sammy still had twelve months left to serve in Iraq before he’d be going home, so I played down my feelings towards leaving so as not to cause him unnecessary stress.

As our final week in the Middle East began, the heavier items of our belongings were shipped home by sea and, slowly,
unfamiliar
faces started to appear and begin settling in ahead of their six or seven months at Umm North. Wilko and I remained in our secluded room, while the remainder of the squadron had to make do with sharing accommodation with the new boys. Wilko and I had become good mates over the three months we’d shared the room. I hadn’t mentioned my relationship with Sammy to him directly but I knew he was aware of it; when I asked him if it was possible to have the room to myself for an hour or so one afternoon just a handful of days before flying home, he pretty much knew exactly what I was asking.

It wasn’t anything crude I had in mind; more than anything I wanted a hug and a cry. Every week we’d had some very stressful and heartbreaking conversations and each time we held back our tears to save a scene. I needed to give Sammy a huge hug and tell him how glad I was to have met him. I was already thinking about visiting him upon his return the following year. I needed to get his postal address, his email, perhaps a phone number. But
our last time together never happened. As I opened the door to the ops room expecting to find Sammy messing around with the radio, I saw the figure of a young American woman, dressed neatly in her combats and carrying out the tasks I’d been used to seeing Sammy do. Sammy hadn’t come.

The girl told me that Sammy had reported sick earlier that morning and had been sent to rest in Camp Bucca. Of course, that might have been the case, but inside I was heartbroken. To this day, I believe that Sammy couldn’t face the goodbye and had taken the easy option not to come. I didn’t know his surname, his postal address, his email address or his telephone number. Sammy was completely gone. I returned to my empty, windowless room, sat on my metal-framed bed and started to cry. I was gutted.

Two days later a helicopter came into Umm and took me and a bunch of the other soldiers to an American airbase in Qatar. My time in Iraq was over. As the chopper took off from Umm Qasr North, I could see in the distance the large site of Camp Bucca towards the Kuwaiti border and wondered whether Sammy was thinking about me.

I’d been in touch with my parents frequently towards my return to the UK so they knew when I’d be off the ground and out of any possible danger. I could hear how excited and pleased Mum had become the closer the day of my return came. I’d missed them terribly, of course, and I couldn’t wait to see them at the earliest chance.

The plane touched down in Cyprus for our customary de-climatisation period: twenty-four hours of drinking, eating and lounging on a gorgeous beach before continuing on to England. Nobody had had access to alcohol while away so the army diluted us with booze to limit the shock of returning home and drinking ourselves stupid. Naturally there was trouble and towards the end of the night the Household Cavalry boys got
into a fight with some Royal Engineers after trying to outdo each other with their behaviour. This meant lots of stripping and nakedness before upping the game with more naughtiness and finally all-out fighting. I avoided most of the trouble, leaving it to the bigger lads, and the following morning we headed to the waiting aircraft to carry on our journey home, with nothing more than a few black eyes and bruised egos. A SQN was in one piece.

We slept our hangovers away as the plane made its way back to Oxfordshire. Finally we touched down in the land we’d spent seven months serving; we were back in England.

A coach collected us and someone had kindly put a few crates of lager on board for us to enjoy on the drive back to Combermere barracks. It was almost time for tea and medals as they say, but I was just looking forward to taking off the desert fatigues and not having to put them back on again. They’d become so old-looking and worn; soon we’d be back in greens.

We pulled into camp and saw a huge blanket hanging, painted with the words ‘Welcome Home A SQN’. The gates of camp were decorated with union flags and through the windows of the coach in the darkness, the married guys waved at their wives who were crying outside. The coach halted outside the mess and we were directed inside to have a drink with the waiting commanding officer. As I entered the room, keen to get a pint from the bar, I was surprised to see so many families waiting for a glimpse of their returning sons. I didn’t consider for a moment that Mum would have made the journey down but as my eyes circled the room, I noticed a very familiar figure sat in the corner with tears rolling down her cheeks. Mum had come to greet me. I ran over to her and Phil and hugged them both. It was the greatest surprise. I’d had no idea they were planning to be there. Relief was felt by everyone in the room; we’d all come home together. The worries and stresses of an entire year, the training,
deployment and role changes we’d been through since early January, were put away as we all squeezed and cherished the time with our nearest and dearest.

We stayed at Aunt Audrey’s house in Sussex and spent the night chatting and drinking wine into the early hours. A Squadron had been stood down for the weekend and told to be in work in fresh desert combats (much to my annoyance) the following Monday to prepare for our forthcoming medal parade. We were to receive our campaign medals from Lord Guthrie, who was also the colonel of the Life Guards and held the title ‘Gold Stick in Waiting to HM the Queen’.

After a pleasant weekend with the family catching up and unwinding from my recent adventures, I said my farewells and returned to Windsor to begin the rehearsals for the medal parade which was scheduled for the Thursday. My family would be returning to Windsor and bringing my dear nan with them for the occasion. It was great seeing the other A SQN boys back at work on the Monday morning, most of whom had arrived two days after us. The squadron was back together again for the last task of the year.

The corporal major drilled us around the barracks endlessly for the three days before the medal presentation; we’d let our personal drill go a little while abroad and found ourselves out of step or turning the wrong way on command. It started off as a laugh, but as the parade edged near, the corporal major lost his patience with us and kept us practising our drill movements until late Wednesday evening. Early on Thursday morning, he had the entire squadron out running in Windsor Great Park to ‘blow out the cobwebs’ before our big day. We were embarking on seven weeks’ leave following the medal parade and we’d have run all day if it meant getting the best part of two months off in return.

As Lord Guthrie made his way along the line, pinning the
shiny medals with the Queen’s head engraved to the front on each man’s chest, I could see Mum, along with the many other mothers who’d travelled to Windsor to witness the occasion, with tears rolling down her face. It was a cold December morning, but not even the chilly weather could get in the way of our parents’ pride. After the ceremonial part of the medal presentation had passed, A SQN exercised its right of Freedom of Windsor and marched to the Garrison Church, stopping the traffic as we went. The band played along the way and the memories of the events of the previous twelve months filled my mind. The following day would mark a year since the start of my Iraq diary, the day we’d initially learned of our fate, and almost everything in my life had changed since then. I’d completely grown up: I’d seen some awful things and I’d had my heart broken, twice. I wondered about the first heartbreak. Where was Thom now? Was he stood at the side of a street applauding us as we marched by? Was he with his new lover, possibly abroad? My mind quickly changed to Sammy, who was still in southern Iraq. I wondered if he thought about me every time he travelled to Umm Qasr North to maintain his radio. I hoped he was OK, but of course there was never a way to find out.

At the church service we gave poignant thought and
remembrance
to the twenty-six servicemen and women who hadn’t made it back from Operation Telic 10.