Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier (22 page)

Rest in peace.

S
ix months had passed since our return from southern Iraq and life within A Squadron was somewhat different from the style we’d been used to over the previous two years. Much like other units that had returned from tour, the soldiers in our unit were dispersed to concentrate on other duties, sometimes in other bases. I was remaining in A SQN with a handful of original lads, working with and alongside a fresh breed of recruits. Some of the guys had been posted to Knightsbridge on ceremonial duties, others had been promoted and sent to work in another
squadron
. It was a sad affair and a strange environment to get used to; the team that had endured seven months of the blistering Iraqi heat was no more. The corporal major had retired from the army and Warren, the senior NCO who’d offered me an ear upon my return to Iraq the previous year, had taken his place, something that would pay dividends for me in the upcoming months.

After our relentless tour build-up and the operations that followed, the pressure was removed from us somewhat. Our fitness, although kept at a respectable level, didn’t have to meet the constant battle-ready standard deploying troops need to have. We’d take leisurely runs along the Thames in Windsor, through the grounds of Windsor Castle and out into the vast Great Park two or three times a week. Warren’s emphasis on fitness was
through sport, something everyone preferred to tough
battle-style
physical training.

With no clear goal or objective, the squadron existed in a strange bubble that saw us playing on our Xboxes most of the time or playing football in the gym. Our vehicles had returned from Iraq and were given to another squadron to use for their own forthcoming operations, leaving A Squadron with nothing to do in our working hours. Glad of the rest initially, soon the boredom settled in, steadily replaced by general unhappiness among the boys in the squadron. We needed a job. Suddenly we got one.

‘Who’s ever been to Canada?’ Warren asked the squadron. Not many of the lads’ hands were up, but a few of the more senior guys had been.

‘OK. Let me put it this way: who wants to go to Canada?’ Instantly, the whole squadron sprang to attention and placed their arms in the air, me included.

‘Right, I can only send half of you, so, Wharton, you’re first: squadron leader’s driver!’

Warren looked down at his notepad and scribbled my name. I was delighted I was going but I knew none of the details of the trip. How long would we be going for? What were we going to be doing? None of it really mattered though. I was so bored sitting around an empty tank park anything would have been better.

Squadron leader’s driver was a good job, but I’d recently
qualified
as a gunner and operator. I’d hoped my time in the driver’s seat was long gone and had been waiting patiently to be placed in the turret with an experienced commander, to practise my new skills.

Becoming a gunner had meant a six-week-long course in gunnery, in the classroom and simulator at Windsor and then live firing on the range in South Wales. The course had been much fun, but it was marred by a large incident.

I was in the middle of a smoke-grenade lecture with my instructor, Rich, the chap who’d overheard my conversation that day with Sammy back in Umm Qasr. Everything was going fine until we practised the firing-off of grenades. We were, of course, supposed to be in a safe environment and handling duds. I wish we’d spent longer checking they weren’t real smoke grenades.

‘OK, James. You’ve loaded them in. I want you to pretend now that you’ve gotten into some trouble and you need to fire them off.’

I dropped down onto my gunner’s seat and went through my checks before confirming to the commander that they were ready to be fired. On my nod, he went through the actions and very much to our dismay, two grenades fired off.

Horrified, the instructor and I looked at each other. How had this happened? Why were there live grenades in the gunnery wing? As the grenades fired off and bounced around the small gunnery wing hangar, Rich pulled himself out of the turret and made a run for the door. I was so shocked that the grenades had fired off that I decided to stay put, dropping to the bottom of the turret awaiting their explosion. Outside of the vehicle I could hear the other lads legging it out of the building, leaving me alone in the vehicle hoping for the best. Another
instructor
screamed for me to get out and run before it ‘blew’, so I did and climbed out of the tank. When I made it outside, everyone looked bewildered by what had gone on and fire alarms sounded all over the barracks. Thankfully, the grenades were just filled with smoke and not phosphorus, so once they’d been detonated from the side of the vehicle they just bounced around filling the air with thick white smoke. Nobody was really hurt, except one of the guys who’d jumped out of a window to safety and sprained an ankle.

A full investigation was launched immediately. I’d handled real smoke grenades in Iraq and should have noticed them when
I was loading the grenade banks up, but I hadn’t even considered the possibility that those used in an instruction would be ‘live’. It was a stressful episode but I came through without much trouble from the regiment. My gunnery instructor, on the other hand, was punished quite severely for the incident and was soon posted away from Windsor to finish off his time in the army. There were also questions raised about the handling and secure stowage of ammunition in general. What a day! Kempy thought the whole thing hilarious.

Despite having secured my gunnery training, I wasn’t too disappointed I wouldn’t have a chance to use my new skills. I just wondered when I would get the chance and who I might be working under as a gunner for the first time. Little did I know it would turn out to be Prince Harry.

We were going to Canada to act as an enemy force to a series of battle groups made up of British regiments training for
deployment
to either Afghanistan or Iraq. As a smaller, self-contained body, we’d give the ‘good guys’ a run for their money and
hopefully
allow them the chance to hone their battle skills. Everyone liked the sound of the job, which also promised plenty of free time while in Canada to travel and partake of some adventurous training. Preparations began immediately.

In May, news hit the regiment of a tragic incident involving a vehicle crewed by members of D Squadron, who were, at the time, serving in Afghanistan. Kempy rang me from the
guard-room
to tell me there had been a fatality. All around the
regiment
, dread settled in. It was awful. We’d lost a soldier. Trooper Babakobau, one of the two Fijian men we’d gone through riding school with years earlier, had died after his vehicle struck a mine. It was a massive blow. Every death is tragic, but Babs was someone I knew well and I mourned long over the death of my friend. There it was. One of the people I’d bonded with
over the course of those winter months while learning to ride was gone. The Fijian community within the Household Cavalry went into deep sorrow and I felt for each and every one of them. His closest friend, Torou, who’d followed him from his homeland to join the British Army, walked away from his career very soon after. It was a sad state of affairs, and I’ll always keep the photograph of us both, dressed in our ceremonial attire in 2004, extremely safe.

Arriving into work a few days later, a casual remark about ‘gay pride’ caught me off guard. To my amazement, someone,
somewhere
in the army, was trying to collect lesbian and gay soldiers to march proudly in uniform at London Pride. Incredibly, a padre was organising the effort to coincide with the navy and the Royal Air Force LGBT presence, which, by the sound of things, was slightly more developed than the army’s.

I decided not to make a big fuss about the whole thing in work, but Warren secured me the day off and I was able to attend. I got on the train to Waterloo that Saturday morning very
apprehensive
about how the day might unfold. Carrying my uniform in a suit carrier, my highly polished boots in a holdall, I nervously sat in the train carriage, constantly considering getting off at the next stop and heading back to Windsor.

I was worried I’d be the only person there. I was worried that I’d turn up and be pressured into something I didn’t particularly want to do. But at the same time I wondered who I might meet. Would I make some new friends? I felt nervous right until I arrived at the hotel where we were meeting. I’d made the right choice to stick it out. In front of me at the hotel reception stood about fifty other uniformed men and women from across all three services.

There was a larger contingent of the Royal Navy men and women, with their smart dark blue sailors’ uniforms and white caps. The RAF had slightly more personnel in the hotel foyer than the army did, too. To be surrounded by so many other different uniformed soldiers, sailors and airmen all proudly gay and ready to march at Gay Pride was the most surreal of
experiences
. Where had all these people been until now?

We were ushered out of the foyer and into a conference room where a gentleman, not in uniform, introduced himself as a colonel. He welcomed us along and told us why he felt it was important we were there.

‘This is the military’s opportunity to show the world we’re gay-friendly and proud.’ His words were met with applause. They struck a real chord, too. For five years I’d served and never been reassured officially by the army that I was fully accepted and, more so, wanted.

The starting point of the procession was miles across London and two coaches were needed to get us there. I’d been taken in by a group of Royal Navy sailors, by which I was delighted. They’d all been in London since the previous evening and were a little hungover to say the least. It was bizarre to be in the company of like-minded people who’d had similar experiences to me, to be unified with these people because we were gay. The conversations the sailors were having at the back of the coach were the kind I couldn’t begin to repeat. The navy boys have always enjoyed limitless banter. I loved it.

As the coach door closed and we prepared to drive away, I noticed a uniformed soldier running along the pavement urgently trying to stop the coach from driving off. It was a late arrival, whom I slightly recognised. The coach stopped and the lad climbed on board. I was amazed to see the figure of a soldier in the same uniform as me and wearing the same Household
Cavalry badges. His eyes met mine and we both looked at each other with surprise. The soldier stood before me was also based in Windsor, but working in a different squadron. Marc, who was not ‘out of the closet’, had found the information about the pride march in the same manner I had and hadn’t spoken to anybody about it. This was his coming-out day and I was gobsmacked to see him there. He told me nobody knew and I respected that. He was still finding himself, as I had done throughout my teenage years, but I knew that on that day of celebration and unity, he’d be reassured with confidence that he was not alone.

I’d never really done the whole Gay Pride thing before that day. It wasn’t just my first Pride wearing uniform, but actually my first Pride full stop. As the coach meandered its way through the busy London streets, I was amazed to see so much colour and so many different people, all out to celebrate gay pride. The excitement began to build. I wondered just how loud a reception we’d get as we marched by. How would the day unfold and where would we all go after the march? Where would we party?

The coach pulled up at the starting point of the march through London and, immediately, we were hit by wave after wave of photographers and journalists. The very first time all three services were allowing personnel to take part in Gay Pride celebrations was of huge interest to the media. I was completely taken by surprise. Yes, I had a vague idea of what the whole thing was about. I understood the difficulties and discrimination the gay community had endured to be able to get to that moment of acceptance and celebration, but what hadn’t occurred to me was that it was
essentially
a protest. A protest that signified to the world that there was still much more to be done. At the front of that protest was us, the British military. It was a hugely symbolic image.

Waiting for the nod to step off, I was repeatedly moved by people, particularly older people, who were out to celebrate,
waving rainbow flags. People would come up to us with tears in their eyes, thanking us. Men and women who’d been on the Section 28 marches in the 1980s against Thatcher and her
homophobic
policies; men and women who knew fully what it was to be overtly discriminated against and chastised in public. People who had been through the most horrific of experiences, who’d fought for their rights and mine. On that day in 2008 they were moved to tears to see us there in our uniforms, proudly
wearing
our medals as we proclaimed: ‘We’re gay!’ Meeting these people and realising that there was a whole deeper meaning to why exactly Gay Pride existed struck a chord in me; it was the moment I realised that the torch had been passed to a new generation; it was the moment I realised I was an activist. And I was proud to be one.