Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier (31 page)

The school tour business was handed back to my regiment to
decide whether or not it was appropriate for me to undertake. The army powers were, I know, not overly keen on the idea and I’m sure they hoped my commanding officer would decline the request, citing workload as a key reason, but much to my relief, the colonel allowed me to go ahead with the visits, just as long as I used my own leave to do them. I was a little frustrated I had to book days off to carry the visits out, but was delighted to have the chance to go out and make a difference to schoolchildren around the country.

The night before my first visit, to a school in rural Wiltshire, I found myself more nervous than the night before my civil
partnership
, even more nervous than I’d felt in the hours leading up to my keynote speech at the Stonewall conference some weeks earlier. What if the kids hated me? What if they laughed at me and called me names for being gay? I was anxious about the episode, but I boarded the train the following morning, smartly turned out in my Blues, and headed off to the school to give my talk to the waiting assembly of teenagers.

Stonewall sent a very nice lady along with me, to hold my hand, as it were, and prep me before facing the audience. After chats with teachers and a handful of youngsters over coffee, it was time to go on stage. I adjusted my uniform, took a sip of water and walked out to the expectant crowd of schoolchildren.

As I walked out on to the stage, I could feel the eyes of every person in the school hall fix on me, looking at my smart uniform, stirring in their seats, ready to hear my message.

Cleverly, the school kids hadn’t been prepped before my arrival. At the moment I walked onstage, the majority of school pupils probably would have thought I was there to give a presentation on being a soldier, but the moment I began to speak, the reaction from the kids was astonishing.

‘I’m a gay man. I’m also a professional soldier.’

The teenagers began to natter at my sudden admission. A gay soldier?

‘I’ve come to talk with you today about breaking down
stereotypes
and tackling homophobia.’

For the following forty-five minutes, you could hear a pin drop. The room was that silent. Every member of the audience,
including
the teaching staff, was captivated by my tale of service, both in Britain and abroad, and how I’d faced every day of my service authentically, as an openly gay person. When I reached the end of my story, and after I’d pleaded with everybody to think twice before using homophobic language and to consider the
potentially
dreadful effects of bullying within the community, I was met by rapturous applause. The entire school hall was clapping and smiling at me. I found it incredible. Here was a mixture of thirteen-to sixteen-year-old boys and girls, an age group that’s known for being difficult sometimes, embracing a real story and listening with interest. I’d won them over and, it has to be said, they’d won me over, too. If my reception had been hostile in the least, I might have reconsidered participating in the school visits for Stonewall completely. The opposite was true and the visit spurred me on to continue with the work.

At the end of the school day I was being taken for coffee with an official from the education board in Wiltshire to discuss equality, before dropping by to an LGBT youth group, where gay and lesbian teens hung out safely and accessed advice and support.

I’d noticed the youth-group visit on the timetable of events for the day, and considered briefly while scouting over it how brilliant it would have been to have such a resource when I was growing up. It led me to realise that if I had had access to an established youth group, I’d have ‘come out’ at a much younger age. By growing up in a community that, in my opinion, was very
enclosed and not very diverse, I’d felt a little entrapped by my own diversity, leading to me refusing to accept how different I was. If I’d known there was a safe place to access help and make friends confidentially, I know I’d have sought the support I craved.

I arrived at the youth group, which was based out of a
community
resource centre and run by the local authority. The nice lady from the council had briefed me fully on the establishment of the youth club, which was quite an astonishing story in itself.

A fourteen-year-old girl called Jessica had been on a journey of self-discovery for some years as she accepted and understood the fact that she was quite different from her school friends, finally concluding that she was a lesbian. Instead of keeping her thoughts and feelings bottled up for years, she decided to fully embrace who she was and went in search of support.

She found it incredible that there was no overt, easily
available
resource for her to access as a young LGBT person within her county and, feeling quite alone, she decided to do something about it.

Jessica had lobbied her local authority to provide her, and people like her, with support and a place to access information and make friends. She demanded a youth group for LGBT teens and campaigned hard for her wishes.

After numerous knock-backs, two years later the council gave in and provided her and other youngsters the resource of an
official
LGBT youth group, which would meet twice weekly, just like any other youth club. Jessica had won, and in doing so she became a hugely influential young person and a bit of an unsung hero along the way.

What struck me about meeting Jessica and the other LGBT teens was how open and honest they were with each other about the daily struggles each had faced or were facing. After being introduced to them and accepting a cup of tea, we all sat down
and discussed homophobia. I asked the group how many of them had been bullied for being different, and was heartbroken to see every single hand go up in the group. I looked at the adult staff member who ran the group alongside another, and she nodded and said to me that it was a very awkward, uncomfortable and hard-hitting truth. Gay kids get bullied, full stop.

Jessica, who as a young gay rights activist had developed an incredible presence when speaking publicly, sat in the centre of the group of teens and said that the only way each person gets through the daily struggle is by coming to the youth group twice a week and being in an environment where everyone has something in common. Jessica told me that they’d survived the daily
bullying
because the youth group existed, and they each were able to support each other in the manner they’d become accustomed to.

I knew instantly that I needed to help these youngsters and the thousands like them all over the UK. Jessica became my new hero. Through her tireless campaigning as a teenager, she’d pushed the local council into providing her and the youngsters like her with a valuable service that arguably saved lives. She was a true role model if ever there was one and I certainly gained something from meeting her.

My first day volunteering with Stonewall was over. I’d planned to use the day as a trial, to gauge how difficult a challenge it was that was being asked of me, and I had concluded that the
decision
had been made almost entirely for me by someone else. The moment I sat and listened to the gay teens open their hearts to me and speak honestly about the daily bullying they’d received for being who they were, I realised that the choice had
disappeared
. This was something I now had to do and it was
something
I certainly was going to do, regardless of whether the army would support me or not.

T
he royal wedding of 2011 will remain with me for two
significant
reasons. It was the professional peak for me as a serving member of the Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment and also my swansong as a member of that elite outfit. Throwing down the reins and getting out of the saddle after the parade that day was symbolic for me, as I knew it would be my last time riding alongside Her Majesty the Queen.

I was never supposed to be riding on the occasion. Weeks before I’d accepted a job with the commanding officer, working as his orderly and being singularly responsible for his movements, his bearing and his turn-out. When the world was informed of Prince William and Kate’s wedding plans, I walked into the commanding officer’s Knightsbridge office and expressed my hopes to ride on the occasion. Being the leader he was, he
sanctioned
my wishes immediately; it did mean, however, I’d have to turn both myself and him out for the big day. Turning one person out for a parade was usually difficult enough.

The weeks ticked by quickly and before anyone knew it, the royal wedding was on us.

In the ten days that led up to the occasion, London, and in particular, royal London, the area surrounding the palace and the abbey, became a global media hub as the world’s press moved
in and set up camp. An incredible construction of TV studios had been assembled opposite the balcony of Buckingham Palace, awaiting the famous kiss.

Trepidation for us soldiers, the showmen of this global centre of attention, had grown steadily, while the construction of the media city and the visible clean-up of the streets of the West End was undertaken by the many thousands of workmen and women who, like us, would always be able to talk about their little part in that big day.

But what was my part in this big day?

I was to be the Rear Guard of the Sovereign’s Escort for Her Majesty’s return trip to Buckingham Palace after the ceremony at Westminster Abbey. Once back at the palace, we, the Sovereign’s Escort, would form up on the spot and give a final royal salute to our Queen, before getting the hell out of there ahead of the fly-past of the Royal Air Force. On exiting Buckingham Palace I would become the Advance Guard and singlehandedly lead the regiment back to our Hyde Park home.

The magnitude of the role I’d been handed played on my mind constantly in the run-up to the day itself. I was to lead the regiment home after the biggest ceremonial occasion since the coronation of the Queen almost sixty years earlier. Every single person on parade, including the commanding officer, was going to be following my lead. And then, back at barracks, the
ceremonial
dismount of the entire regiment would be on my nod. To say I was proud is an understatement; to say I was nervous was an even bigger understatement.

The day before, at an early hour, a full rehearsal was held for everyone on parade. It was going to be quite an affair, more so because of the length of time we’d be atop our horses. We were to leave Hyde Park barracks, head right along the park to Wellington Arch, then down Constitution Hill eventually passing in between
the palace and the temporary construction of Media City, before heading into Victoria – quite unusual for us – and coming to a halt about 200 metres short of Westminster Abbey. Here we’d wait forty or so minutes for the happy couple to emerge, newly married, when a small escort of Household Cavalrymen would zoom off with the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. The rest of us were there for the Queen, who was due to appear at the west door precisely five minutes after the newlyweds had departed. At this point we’d kick into a full ceremonial escort for the Queen as she waved her way home to Buckingham Palace, along Whitehall, through Horse Guards and up the Mall.

The rehearsal almost felt like the real occasion. The large numbers of people who’d already taken up home on the streets of the route, not wanting to miss out on the best spot, made our practice far more real than it should have been. When we rocked up the day before the wedding to carry out drills, it made global headlines on news networks around the world, defying the point of early-morning rehearsal. Alas, it was what it was and
everybody
had a taste of what to expect the following morning.

While waiting outside the abbey, going through the motions of picking up the Queen in the early-morning light, I found myself saying a cheery hello to some American supporters who’d travelled from afar to witness the celebrations first-hand. They’d camped out for days in a little tent, which they’d eventually lose before the big event, in order to secure the prime location. I was struck by how friendly everyone outside the abbey and at other key locations along the route was being to each other. There was a huge sense of historic occasion in everyone’s behaviour. Everybody was in this together.

Our rehearsal went well, and before I knew it I was
undertaking
a last-chance practice of the regimental dismount, which was solely my responsibility. I was too long in the tooth, and far
more prepared than needed, to get this crucial moment wrong. Often, people think that the parade is over as soon as the Queen has been safely delivered back to the palace. In actual fact, we ceremonial troops have our work cut out for some time after. The regimental dismount, a historic tradition dating back to 1660, is the culmination of any cavalry movement, and has to be carried out to the highest standard every time. In almost a decade of service, the responsibility had never lain on my shoulders. I’d dodged the bullet, as it were, but at the royal wedding of 2011, the job was completely in my hands.

As expected, Mum and Phil descended upon London the day before the royal wedding – to be part of the occasion, but also to support me, their son, in what was, unknown to them, the last occasion I’d wear the uniform and accompany the monarch.

It started early. My drive across the capital into Knightsbridge was joyously straightforward. Of course, that Friday had been deemed a bank holiday, so my usual impatient drive through Chelsea wasn’t marred with the endless traffic associated with west London in the morning. Within ten minutes of
arriving
at the barracks I was dressed in my stable fatigues, waking Doncaster and mucking out his stall in preparation for the morning’s activities.

Hyde Park barracks was alive with activity. Dozens of news crews circulated the base, hoping to capture every moment of this important event. The BBC, NBS, Forces Radio, ITV and Sky were just a few of the many recognisable logos floating around on the side of giant cameras. The occasional celebrity TV presenter stopped a soldier and offered questions trying to gain an insight into the routine of a state escort.

In a trick I’d learned years before from Faulkner, Doncaster had been on a reduced diet of just chaff for the day preceding the event; I didn’t want him too energetic and giddy for my big moment.

After my initial dressing of Doncaster and his stall, I gave him some food and left him to his own devices while I grabbed my own breakfast. I’d spent hours and hours all week sorting my kit out as well as the commanding officer’s kit, which he’d be wearing as he inspected the entire regiment. As he would be looking over the boys, the boys would be doing the exact same thing to him, and if he didn’t look as smart as possible, comments would be made and everyone would know I was the person who’d turned him out poorly for the royal wedding. I dashed from one side of the barracks to the other many times that morning, titivating both our uniforms.

The colonel was turned out immaculately, as was I, and – it has to be said, quite unusually – so was everyone on parade; there was usually at least someone who let the side down. Not at the royal wedding.

The time came for us to get on top, and after spending three hours slowly dressing Doncaster and making him look as
beautiful
as possible, I was glad to have the chance to sit down, even if it was on top of a horse. By the time the regiment started to form up on the square for the colonel’s inspection, our families and loved ones had filled the area at the back of the regimental square, standing on a balcony looking over the sight of the entire regiment formed up and ready to make history.

I took up my position as the very last man, ahead of my duty as the Rear Guard for the most part of the parade. I rode over to Thom and my parents and they wished me luck and took many
photographs
. Soon the regimental corporal major, who by chance was Warren, my old boss and friend from my days in Iraq and Canada, called for us to form up and settle down before getting started.

We were brought to attention and the commanding officer smartly but gracefully swaggered into the centre of the square, chatting briefly to Warren before starting his inspection.
Following the old Faulkner formula of ‘time available and number of men on parade’, I figured the colonel had about eight seconds to inspect each person. All that stood between a soldier leaving the gates and riding his part in history was eight seconds of inspection. It was make-or-break time.

I could see him getting nearer and nearer through the corner of my eye, and when he got into my vision directly, I gave the colonel and the kit I’d spent so long cleaning a good look over. Thankfully, he looked perfect. The colonel got to me, stood in front of me and looked me square in the face.

‘Excellent turn-out, Corporal Wharton.’

What else could he have said? I expected nothing less; I was ready to go.

Out of absolutely nowhere, an eruption of noise filled the air across London and every horse on the square replied by
tossing
and jerking, some more than others. Doncaster gave out an extremely long and loud sigh. I had never heard anything like it and my heart skipped a beat as I considered all the awful things the noise could have been. Soon I realised it was the sound of cheers, the sound of an entire world cheering, and after the parade I learned it was the moment the Duchess was sighted for the first time in her beautiful dress as she appeared at the front of her hotel in Belgravia.

Our horses knew this was something none of them had ever done before. I tried to consider quickly when I’d last been on a parade like this, and of course the answer was never. The sixtieth anniversary of VE/VJ Day back in 2005 had been pretty spectacular, especially as it was just three days after the London bombings, but it didn’t compare to hearing an entire city shout with joy at the sight of a lady in her wedding dress, our future Queen.

The colonel gave the regiment his nod of approval, and took
the fairly unusual step of addressing us all before giving the command to move off. His words were a moment of privacy between him, the command element of the most traditional establishment in the world, and us, the men charged with the honour of carrying out his commands.

We left the base and rode into history.