Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier (33 page)

I was in camp by 8 a.m. the following morning, expecting to have the worst day ever imaginable, but was bewildered to find that the position of the army had seemingly changed overnight. I was no longer in trouble. For reasons unknown to me, someone,
somewhere, had made a decision to just let everything go. I was told not to do anything again without express permission and sent on my way to finish my leave.

I’d escaped the assassin’s bullet to an extent, but I could see the resentment in the senior officers’ eyes as they ‘dealt’ with me that morning. Right then, I was relieved to be leaving the service. I’d become different. I couldn’t believe that I was being judged for speaking out for gay equality as a gay person. The officers who were dealing with me, and especially the chap who’d been on the phone threatening me with arrest, were all straight and, to the point, married men. Marriage equality was in place for them, a luxury that was far from in place for me. I think the hypocrisy of that very point is what killed off any disciplinary action I might have faced that morning. I think once that fact would have been in the public domain, it might have created attention that the army didn’t want to be associated with. There might have been a backlash from a lot of people in the gay community.

I embarked on my final few days of leave before having to return to the south coast to carry on with the teaching of Jackal to deploying troops. I would see the end of my army service out at that remote base on the southern coast.

W
hen I was thirteen, I got a job working in a local chippy as a potato peeler. I peeled for hours every day after school, constantly cutting my fingers on the sharp knives, but I loved the responsibility of having a job and earning my own money. Since then, I’ve always had money in my back pocket. At the end of my first week, I was handed a pay packet which I took across the road to the local supermarket and spent on an album I’d wanted for some time: Elton John,
One Night Only
, his
greatest
hits live from Madison Square Garden. I bought it because at that early age, I admired who he was and for reasons that weren’t entirely known to me then, I identified him as a real role model. He was someone who’d had his fair share of knocks, but had come through the other end still standing, singing his songs to the world and being true to himself as he did so.

Late in 2011, I received a phone call from someone called Thomas, claiming to be the personal assistant to Sir Elton John. He had some news that was, in his words, ‘exciting’. He wasn’t wrong.

About six months earlier, a famous Australian artist called Ross Watson had got in touch with me through Stonewall with what, initially, I thought of as a bizarre request.

‘I want to make a painting of you!’

Somewhat reluctantly, I went along with the request and Ross flew over to London to capture me some weeks later. I posed in my full military regalia, the same outfit I’d worn at my civil partnership, and Ross spent hours taking photos of me in
different
settings. He flew home and after some months eventually got back in touch to tell me he’d finished his painting.

The end result was utterly fascinating. In the days that followed seeing the painting for the first time, I couldn’t quite put into words just exactly what I thought; I only knew it was
breathtakingly
impressive. Such skill, such delicacy, he was a true master of his field. Coupled with the painting, Ross had produced three photographic portraits of me, and in one of the works Thom posed next to me. Again they were captivating.

When I came off the phone to Sir Elton’s assistant, I was at work, surrounded by other soldiers. One of them commented immediately.

‘You’ve gone pale? Is everything OK?’

‘Erm… I don’t quite know how to say this, but Elton John has just bought a portrait of me!’

Sir Elton was a collector of Ross Watson’s works and, as usual, had first offer on all his new pieces. He liked what he saw in my portrait and upon learning my story felt inspired to want to buy it. I couldn’t believe it. Eleven years after I’d bought something of his, after feeling inspired by his work and his achievements, he’d done exactly the same for me.

My journey into manhood is similar in a way. I’d gone from peeling potatoes in a chip shop to escorting Her Majesty the Queen on a horse by day and drinking wine with the Prime Minister at Downing Street by night, an incredible turnaround in the space of ten or so years.

When I arrived at the crazy environment of 6 Platoon in 2003, where the homophobic platoon sergeant’s early rule was
‘no faggots’, I didn’t quite know what I was letting myself in for. I knew gay people were protected, at least legally, from
discrimination
but that information hadn’t filtered through to those people who needed it most, the soldiers who were responsible for
looking
after the fresh recruits at their most vulnerable stage.

From day one, the soldiers I’ve counted as peers, those mostly in the same age group as me, joining around the same time as me, have on the whole been progressive and accepting of
diversity
. Being different, whether by race, religion or sexuality, is something they have been used to all their lives. The PlayStation generation has grown up with the internet and Sky TV, and have had regular access to diversity on a nightly basis.

The problem throughout has been the fallout of the army’s old culture of homophobia. It was too much asking some soldiers to change their employer-driven, discriminatory opinions on gay people. And who can blame them really? The army had spent a lot of time, resources and money in actively hunting out homosexuals within the organisation, right up to the turn of the century. Then suddenly, literally overnight, they were made to change their policy, and instead of hunting us out and throwing us in the streets in shame, they embraced us and told everybody to be accepting of us. When I turned up three years later, over half of the army had served before the rules had changed and that generation of soldiers has struggled to embrace the new army. I can’t hate my platoon sergeant too much for his words on that first night in the army; he was an example of the culture he’d signed up to in the 1980s. The times had changed so fast, in such a short amount of time, that many people were left behind, and right up to the last day of my service in 2013, it was still soldiers from that generation that I’d mostly hear using
casually
racist language or making silly comments about women or, indeed, sexuality.

These people are retiring gradually but until the remnants of that generation have fully left the service, the army won’t be as gay-friendly an employer as its private sector counterparts. Significant to this too is the fact there are no openly gay senior officers within the ranks of the British Army. Nobody in a
position
of senior authority has stepped forward and said the words ‘I’m gay’, and the reason for that is simple: unless you are a married white man, preferably with a couple of kids to boot, it’s very unlikely you’ll become a general. The senior talent of the British Army is in no way reflective of the thousands of troops below; there isn’t even a woman general up there. It’s utterly disappointing and it leaves people like me, at the bottom end of the chain, without hope. Obviously I was never going to become a general, but my service in the army would have felt a billion times better if there was someone up there who wasn’t just white, heterosexual and married with kids. There was no senior figure I could identify with at all; throughout ten whole years of service, there was no role model and, I would say, there probably won’t be for another ten years yet. I hope I’m wrong.

Since I started on my journey of service, beginning at
thirteen
when I walked through the door of the army cadet hut in the middle of Gwersyllt, I have given my all to the army. After enlisting at sixteen, every hour of every day I’ve committed all my energy to the job I swore my allegiance to, and I have to say, on the whole it’s been a pretty awesome experience. I’ve made friends I will never forget and will keep them close by for the rest of my life. Those three lads that I sat with the night I announced I was gay will be for ever in my gratitude: Dean Perryman, Josh Tate and Jamie McAllen, I couldn’t have asked for a better
reception
to the words I’d fought so long with myself to say.

I came out when I did for no other reason than wanting to release something in me that I’d battled to accept for as long as I
can remember. I didn’t want to change the world, I just wanted to be happy, but I’m hugely proud that somewhere, someone might have felt empowered to be themselves and take that massive step out of the closet and into the unknown because of the actions I’ve taken over my fairly short career in the army.

But my greatest achievement is something outside of the military.

When my nan decided not to accept the news that I, her youngest grandson, was gay, my heart was broken. I cried on and off for years, mostly after talking to her on the phone. She was never nasty, but I always knew that behind her pleasantness she was harbouring feelings of resentment towards me and my life, and I hated myself for being the one person in the family who was different. She loved me completely, but there was one aspect of my life she just didn’t.

In 2012, Nan accepted an invitation to come and stay and enjoy the Diamond Jubilee celebrations in London with me and Thom. For months I fretted over how the visit would go, worrying that she would be uncomfortable and, in turn, unhappy throughout her stay. The two of us, but in reality more Thom than me, went out of our way to make her holiday with us
unforgettable
, culminating in a grand day out watching the river pageant from the banks of the Thames before a night of patriotic singing in the Royal Albert Hall. She loved every minute of it, but more so, over the course of the six days, she witnessed how much love Thom and I have for one another, and how ordinary an
environment
our home is, just like any other. She adored her time with us and left us feeling energised by her stay, taking home with her to Liverpool many tales and happy memories of her
week-long
adventure celebrating the Diamond Jubilee. She was great company and I didn’t want her to leave.

In the weeks that followed, Nan sent a card addressed to her
‘Grandson and Grandson-in-Law’, and I knew we’d changed her entire opinion of us, and of gay people as a whole. The
significance
of her card changed my life. I was prouder at that moment than I have ever been and I thought, if an 85-year-old lady can change her mind on sexuality, there’s no excuse for the rest of the world.

I
n the weeks following the completion of this book, I wrote to the platoon sergeant who made those homophobic comments on my first day in the army back in 2003. I asked him if he remembered making such remarks and, if yes, why he had done – and, indeed, if he still felt that way. His response was incredibly revealing.

He said it himself: the army was a different place when he joined. Homophobia and discrimination was acceptable then, actively encouraged in fact, and in some parts of the army today the hangover from that terrible time still exists. He continued:

As I hope I have made evident in this book, the army has changed – and is still changing. It is trying, beyond belief, to better itself and to become a more equal and diverse body. To have my platoon sergeant acknowledge his comments, with such brutal honesty, and to apologise for them is deeply affecting. I’m extremely grateful for his response and hope that the army continues to recognise its recent past and look towards a more inclusive future.

I
woke up on the morning of 25 April 2013 and for the first time in almost ten years I was a normal person, just like everybody else. For the first time since childhood I was no longer a soldier, back to the same status of my sixteen-year-old self, and in the instant I arose that very truth occupied all my thoughts. The weight was off my shoulders, but replaced by another pressure: the daunting question of ‘what now?’

Like thousands of people before me, on that first day of freedom I found myself with nothing to do. I now know that a characteristic of leaving an institution that has absorbed every part of your main focus, year after year, and then is suddenly gone is exactly that feeling of being lost – and, to a certain extent, useless.

As I sat upright in bed, my dog still peacefully asleep under the covers, the realisation hit me that the institution in question, the Household Cavalry, had continued in its daily duty without so much of a second’s hesitation over my absence. Life went on. I just wasn’t involved anymore … and that point, the very fact that life – the army, the wars around the world, the daily duty of Queen’s Life Guard, the task I had spent the majority of my service carrying out – carried on regardless, simply and without effort, was what affected me the most. I was on the outside now and nobody, it appeared, could make my life a success but me.
I’d love to end this paragraph by telling you I got out of bed and did something beautifully constructive and life-changing, but I didn’t. I lay back down and went to sleep. Changing the world could wait a few hours more.

I’m not fishing for sympathy: I was pretty sorted, well, compared to most who leave the army. But I cannot update you on my progress since leaving the military without noting how utterly useless I think the army is at preparing soldiers for that return to the real world. More so, I find it incredible that the Ministry of Defence does next to nothing in terms of aftercare for its people once they’ve exited the service. Ex-soldiers are more likely to become homeless; they are more likely to serve a prison sentence and they are more likely to suffer from a mental illness or consider suicide in the years following army life than those who have never served. With these facts, why is so little done to support veterans immediately after service and later in their lives? There are great service charities providing valuable help for veterans – but they exist to fill the void. The military itself, which surely has a duty of care towards its veterans, is shockingly lacking. I find it deplorable that we depend on charitable organisations, and the goodwill of the general public who donate through the likes of the Poppy Appeal and Help for Heroes, to pick up the pieces the military creates.

I recently reached out to as many former servicemen and women as I possibly could on Facebook to enquire about any aftercare or follow-up dialogue anybody might have had with the army in the months and years following their service and was appalled to learn that nobody had received so much as a phone call. But why should they, you might ask? Well, in my opinion, they ought to be at least picking the phone up every once in a while and seeing how things are. After all, the army is no ordinary job. How often does an everyday employer expose its
workforce to the incredible suffering of people; how often does a person in a normal job go to work facing the fact that it could be their last day alive, or at the very least their last day being able-bodied? These are the everyday fears of thousands of young men and women in the military. One of the chaps I spoke with had been through homelessness and even considered suicide in the year that immediately followed his army career. This person had given his all to the army while serving; the least the army could do was check up on him and help him when he needed it most. As in countless cases of this kind, it was the actions of a charity for ex-soldiers that saved him and put him on the right track. What’s more incredible is the fact that the man in question was originally discharged due to post-traumatic stress yet the military never thought it correct to keep tabs on his welfare. They knew he was vulnerable and they didn’t do anything. I think it’s disgraceful. Today, whenever I’m asked about the treatment of veterans I can only speak highly of charities, of which there are many, and the generosity of everyday people like you and me who pop the occasional fiver in a collection bucket or buy a poppy while walking through a train station. Thousands of vulnerable people would be on the scrapheap fighting for survival without this goodwill – so thank you!

Of course, I did have this book to look forward to, but by that morning in late April it was all finished – for my part, anyway. My editor, Hollie Teague, had turned my manuscript around and we’d both signed it off the week prior. That was now on the road to print. During the editorial period I found a new respect for editors and the talent they possess. As that part of the process ended, Suzanne Sangster, my publicist at Biteback, began calling
me up almost daily with additions to my schedule for the launch period – a whole two months away. This was all getting serious. My diary was filling fast, there was lots planned and as I looked over the list of interviews spanning TV, radio and newspapers, my heart sank a little – a mixture of both excitement and dread. And my publisher and now close friend Iain Dale would occasionally text me and tell me there had been some interest in certain parts of my book and that some serious coverage in the press looked likely. Of course I knew this to be good news, but nothing can really prepare an outsider to the world of PR for that initial blast of fame. I started to find myself occasionally getting out of breath and in a sudden state of panic, something that had never happened to me before.

I spent the following two months preparing for the book’s release, going to the gym every day and even spending the occasional five minutes or so on a sunbed. I wanted to look in the best shape possible for the launch, as I hadn’t really bothered much on the fitness side during my last twelve months in the army – what was the point, I had pessimistically thought. When Suzanne called to tell me I was doing live TV, including an interview with Lorraine Kelly, I suddenly regretted staying clear of the gym for so long and, in a panic-stricken state, hired a personal trainer.

The weeks zoomed by and suddenly we were down to the last few days before the launch. Thom and I took ourselves away for a quick trip to France, which was, on reflection, a great idea, as it was a chance to put everything aside and spend some quality time together, away from the noise of London and the book. It was while we were there that Iain Dale called me to tell me the
Mail on Sunday
had bought the exclusive rights to serialise the book. As delighted as I knew I should be – Iain’s excitement was unmistakable down the line – there was just something preventing me from enjoying the news. To this day, I still don’t quite know
what it was. We enjoyed our last day in France, drove to Calais, then onto our home in the countryside and readied ourselves for what was obviously going to be a fortnight we’d never forget. The following two weeks were exhilarating indeed.

It appeared, from the feedback coming from the recipients of review copies, that I’d written a fairly good book. Some amazing people, personal heroes of mine included, had read early versions and offered the most wonderful comments for use, either on the cover or elsewhere. The day an email landed in my inbox from Stephen Fry – an email that was long in content, detailing how my book had made him feel, and recalling highs and lows from his journey with me as a reader – stands out as a watershed moment. The quote was in with enough time for it to be plastered on the cover.

The launch party, a charity occasion to benefit the Terrence Higgins Trust, had been planned meticulously by THT, Biteback and me. An extravagant champagne event in the plush surroundings of the Cavalry and Guards Club on Piccadilly promised to be a most enjoyable occasion – but more so, a chance to raise some money and do a little good from the book’s release, benefiting directly the projects that THT run supporting people with HIV and Aids. Paul Gambaccini, somebody I love, cancelled an event to come along and make a speech, and the day before, as I read over the guest list, I found myself in tears at the sight of household names, long admired by me and my family, coming along to support my book on its launch. I just couldn’t believe it. I’m sure all those people know I owe them a huge debt of gratitude. I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed that these wonderful people – Paul O’Grady; Dan Sells; the beautiful Layton Williams; one of my closest friends in the world, Jonathan Harvey; and the delightful Christopher Biggins – had taken time out of their lives to come and be part of this
great adventure with me. Crikey, even Captain Darling from
Blackadder
was there! Today, a year and a half on, I’m still grinning to myself about the evening – and what’s more, my book launch raised over £4,000 for the Terrence Higgins Trust, something I was very satisfied about. The party had the best write-up ever the following evening in the
Evening Standard
!

A friend of mine who had found fame briefly in the early ’90s called me the day before the launch and passed on to me some advice somebody had once given him: ‘Make sure you take stock of the events of the next week or so and just try and enjoy every moment, because it will fly by and before you know it, you and your book will be old news!’ Yes, it was to the point, but it was timely advice and good advice at that. At the launch, in the moments before I had to make my speech thanking people, before I had to open up and talk personally about why benefiting the Terrence Higgins Trust was so vital to me during the release of the book, just as Paul Gambaccini was saying embarrassingly nice things about me and the contents of the book, instead of panicking at the prospect of talking to a room full of people, I looked around, considered for a few seconds everything that had ever happened to me, wiped a tear from my eye and savoured the moment. I loved it for a second … and then it was over. I spoke, I thanked, I gave gifts and I got everyone to cheer Dean Perryman, who had returned home from Afghanistan that morning and come directly to my launch. The rest of the week disappeared, as did the book tour I undertook immediately afterwards. The release of
Out in the Army
was done.

It had been fun and indeed fast, but it exhausted me incredibly, so to recuperate, Thom and I booked ourselves on a cruise along the north-east coast of America and Canada. It was the perfect end to months of adventure … and occasional stress.
The summer of 2013 will live with me forever; it was truly fantastic. And the advice my friend gave me, well, it was true! I was suddenly old news.

In the six months or so that followed, every few weeks Biteback would forward on to me some letters that people had sent in. This is still something that excites me. Most of the letters followed a similar pattern: an older man explaining why he couldn’t come out as gay in the army, either during national service or later, first and foremost because of the law at the time, but also because of a real fear of being socially outcast. In some letters there was great detail, which on occasion turned into graphic content, expressing how somebody’s life had been marred by the crushing curse of having to lie every day about something so fundamentally natural. I remember one letter which had been written quite angrily, suggesting I shut up ‘moaning’ about how tough I once had it and that I should count myself lucky. I completely agreed with the man.

But out of the thirty or so letters that found their way to me over the year – and I’m told that J. K. Rowling gets thirty a day – one stands out. I have it on my desk right now, and its contents really captured my attention.

It was sent from a chap called John who lived in Reading. In the late 1970s, John and his ‘friend’ shared a house in Windsor, the town where I spent a lot of my time in the army and, not by coincidence, the town I call home. Going about their business, living a life as best they could in the backdrop of a homophobic society, John and his friend by chance one evening met a young soldier from nearby Combermere barracks who, in a matter of a few minutes, confided in the pair that he was a closeted homosexual. The letter progressed to say the young soldier
wasn’t alone in this situation and at the base, a short walk from the house John and his housemate shared, a number of other men like him were all secretly living a double life, all constantly fretting that they might be found out and thrown into military prison for being gay. Through the writer’s words I felt the complexity of the situation: the almost secret society-like existence the soldiers mentioned must have led. The letter read like a short story.