Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier (13 page)

Whatever the reason, I’m sure Phil and Liza had spoken to her
constantly throughout the week; she’d turned her emotions and behaviour around completely within seven days. She gave me the tightest, longest hug that afternoon before waving me goodbye and, more surprising yet, demanded I introduce her to Thom at the very earliest opportunity. When that would be, I didn’t know.

I’d said farewell to Thom the evening before. Thom had
introduced
me to his mum and dad, both of whom I found extremely nice and very likeable. I just hoped they thought the same about me. We spoke a lot about the army, what exactly I did and how I’d found things. It was great to share some common ground with them. We enjoyed a dinner then Thom and I headed out alone to say our goodbyes. I wasn’t sure when I’d next be off work long enough to warrant a journey all the way to North Wales. I told Thom and he understood. I really didn’t want to return to London and leave him behind.

After a couple of red wines, I walked him home, hand in hand. As we said our goodbyes I asked Thom if he thought we were a couple and he kissed me and said yes. I had my boyfriend. And I’d found him in the last place I ever thought I’d fall in love, the very place I’d grown up hiding who I really was.

I returned to work after my week-long leave feeling refreshed and ready to take on the coming months of the summer silly season. On the first day back, I familiarised myself with the forecast of events and realised just how very busy the Blues and Royals would be leading up to summer leave; an awkward three months away. Would it be that long until I saw Thom again?

It was quite a challenge switching back on to my duties and the way of life that goes with being a ceremonial soldier. I was to go on Queen’s Life Guard the following morning and I had no
kit at all prepared for the duty. Faulkner helped me out by
lending
me most of his kit which was, as always, immaculate. This was quite a normal occurrence among the boys, although officially forbidden. Throughout the day and the weeks that followed, I was distracted by Thom almost constantly, whether it be by text message, phone call or the memories of the things we’d got up to over the course of our seven days together.

The first major parade of the season was usually the Major General’s Parade in Hyde Park, when the major general inspects the regiment prior to commencing the ceremonial calendar. The grand parade is a giant of a spectacle for any passer-by who’s lucky enough to witness the proceedings first-hand. It’s also the one occasion that ‘unseats’ more riders out of the saddle than any other.

I sunk my teeth into preparing for this important parade. It slightly took my mind off Thom, whom I was missing already. I worried about when I’d next get to spend time with him.

As the parade drew nearer, news got around the barracks that the colonel was allowing us a regimental stand-down once the Major General’s Parade was out of the way, before picking up the momentum again for the Queen’s Birthday Parade. It meant that I’d get a long weekend off and therefore enough time to visit Thom. The catch was we all had to turn out immaculately and ride brilliantly in front of the general. We had our carrot and everybody set about their business with conviction.

I didn’t head out into Soho at all in the fortnight leading up to Major General’s. I enjoyed a few nights in the bar on camp or across the street in the Paxton’s Head pub with Faulkner and the boys, but at no point considered returning to my old habits. I associated unhappiness with the clubbing scene and I didn’t want to be sucked back into the pattern of late nights and early mornings. I didn’t want to be chatting to Thom on the phone
with a stinking hangover from a Soho late night, not now he was my boyfriend. I certainly didn’t want to run the risk of meeting another guy while out on the scene.

I told Thom about my pending long weekend off and we hastily made plans for our time together. We spoke about going shopping in Chester, about me meeting more of his friends and us all going out for dinner and drinks. I just thought about seeing him and spending time together, perhaps at the cinema.

When I told Mum I was heading back to North Wales in a couple of weeks’ time, she reminded me about meeting Thom and how important it was for her to have him over for dinner. I told her, although I’d already agreed to her wishes previously, that it might not be the best idea. What if she wasn’t really ready to sit and have dinner with her gay son and his boyfriend? What if she started crying? But she was very firm. I was to bring Thom for dinner on the Friday night.

I really didn’t fancy the whole thing. I was worried from the off about the meeting and more so for Thom. He’d only heard fairly bad things from me about Mum. He’d only known me for a little over two weeks and in the time we’d started to fall in love I’d come out to my mum. It’s amazing he didn’t run a mile.

I didn’t phone home as often as I used to after my
announcement
. Although I knew that I was very loved, I thought it best to let the dust settle a little before reappearing and introducing my boyfriend. I didn’t want to find myself answering questions over the phone about my secret life and the things I’d been doing since being in London. In work I’d answered enough questions about being gay from the other boys; I didn’t fancy setting myself up for the same conversations with my folks or my brother and sister. I knew the time would come when I’d have to answer some questions, but that time wasn’t yet. And it certainly wasn’t over the phone.

After days of endless rehearsing in the park, the morning of the Major General’s Parade dawned and we all, the entire
regiment
, hurried about our business. I was riding my favourite house, Quality Street, and we both looked very smart waiting for the general to ride past, looking over us as he did. The parade wasn’t like any other. We’d usually sit and look pretty, or trot in front of or behind the Queen. Major General’s was when we collectively showed off our equine abilities as a regiment. The culmination of the parade was an advance as a regiment in canter; basically a cavalry charge towards the major general before stopping at once and presenting him with a general salute. When pulled off correctly, there was nothing more impressive. That day we nailed it: the general was delighted with us all and naturally so was the colonel. I was heading home for the weekend! Quality Street was turned in, groomed and bedded down for the day straight after we’d dismounted; I had a train to catch.

Sat in Euston waiting to depart, I felt the stress of the
previous
two weeks’ workload disappear. Indeed, it felt like I’d worked hard enough to warrant an entire month off, and this was only the start. The following weekend we’d be thrown deep into the first rehearsal for the Queen’s Birthday Parade – the Trooping of the Colour, the most important parade of the year. I’d coped better than I had before with the crazy workload the Household Cavalry placed upon its men. I’d had a clear goal: I had to be well turned out and ride correctly with sureness, or I’d lose my weekend off with Thom. This was the first time in what seemed like ages that I could just sit down and do nothing but relax for three hours in the middle of the day.

A week before, when I’d told Thom my mum wanted to meet him on the Friday night, he’d said he was fine with it all, although I could sense the change in his voice and I realised that I was putting him into a situation he wouldn’t be comfortable in. After
a movie-style reunion in North Wales, we discussed the
following
evening’s events. Thom was dreading meeting my mum, but he knew he’d have to sooner or later. I felt the same but wanted to look as if I was calm about the whole thing, hopefully
instilling
confidence in Thom.

We made a plan to meet each other on the Friday afternoon in the town centre, then make our way to my mum’s for the dinner. I didn’t want Thom to have to make an entrance alone. I wanted to arrive with him and, if needed, calm him a little before the big introduction. I headed home late that night, deliberately waiting for my folks to go to bed to avoid any uncomfortable conversation.

The weather on the Friday was again hot. It had been
brilliantly
sunny for what seemed like months. When we met in the town centre, at the bar we’d had our very first date at a month before, I noticed Thom had glammed up for the occasion and looked very smart. I joked that he’d put more effort into meeting my mum than he’d done for me on our first date. We polished off a bottle of wine to calm our nerves and headed for the bus, neither of us chatting very much as we went. The whole thing felt very ominous.

Thom was certain he wanted to make the best impression possible, understandably, so we got off our bus a few stops short in order to buy a bottle of wine. Walking the few streets towards Mum and Phil’s we chatted a little more and kept each other amused, taking our minds off the stresses of what was about to happen. I was so nervous. These days I remember how nervous we were and wonder how nervous Mum must have felt too. It was a very new thing for her to get used to.

As we walked and chatted, something ahead of us caught my eye. Soon Thom had spotted it too and made a remark. A small figure could be seen sitting on the pavement. At first I thought it was a homeless person, sipping on a bottle of whisky or
something, but as we got closer, the realisation of what we were both seeing dawned upon me. I was utterly devastated to be looking at my dad sat drunkenly on the side of the road.

I couldn’t believe it. I considered for a second crossing the road and passing by as if he was just a stranger to me, but I
automatically
hurried my step to get to him and help. Thom looked at me, a little surprised by my reaction.

‘That’s my dad, Thom.’

Dad was in a mess. I hated myself for not being there for him, for not preventing this from happening. Thom didn’t really know what to say or do, and hovered around my father and me as I dragged him to his feet. At the back of my mind I considered just what he must have been thinking. How could my family seem so dysfunctional in comparison to his?

Dad slurred a surprised greeting to me and I noticed some of the neighbours staring out of their windows. I walked the short distance to his flat with him cuddled into my shoulder.

I didn’t want Thom to come into his flat with me; I didn’t know what state it would be in. I worried that he might leave while I was putting my dad to bed but when I got back he was still stood there, very patiently and wearing a warm smile. I still felt totally humiliated.

On reflection, I wish I’d have done something more. I wish I’d have picked up the phone and called Liza and told her enough was enough. It was already past the stage of danger for Dad, he was visibly close to the end, but right then, with Thom on his way to meet my mum for the first time and the stress that I was under with that, I didn’t act upon the situation. I left Dad in his flat, in a highly drunken, uncontrollable state, and made my way to dinner. It’s the biggest regret of my life.

As I rang the doorbell, we both drew a deep breath. Could it get any worse?

Mum answered the door with an extremely graceful and welcoming greeting and ushered us both in. I was immediately taken aback by how fabulous she looked. She looked like she was on her way to a posh restaurant or the theatre. She’d really dressed up for the occasion. It was the first time she’d ever set eyes on Thom and I could see she was surprised by how he looked. To this day I don’t know what she expected, but I guess it was something quite different from what she found.

Thom acted, as you’d expect, fairly quietly and was very well mannered. Everyone was acting on the whole ‘first impressions’ thing. I’ll never forget how it felt to be sat in the dining room at Mum and Phil’s that night, the pictures of me in my uniform surrounding us on the wall, and my boyfriend beside me, me holding his hand under the table and squeezing it occasionally in reassurance.

I guess, and certainly when I think back to the whole coming out to my parents situation, the rest is pretty much history. Mum took to Thom. Thom took to Mum. The disastrous meeting of my drunk father earlier on in the day brought us closer together in a way; our first crisis, if you like. We spent the rest of the weekend in a lovers’ bliss; lots of laughs and lots of hugs and kisses. By the time I had to catch my train from Chester on the Sunday afternoon, I felt that Thom and I would be together forever. I was gutted to be leaving him, but excited at the same time for the future. Life was going to be alright!

T
he Trooping of the Colour is one of those occasions that make Great Britain great. Marking Her Majesty’s official birthday, the Queen’s annual review of her personal division is viewed by thousands in the capital and millions around the world. The entire royal family comes out to celebrate this incredible tradition.

For the hour and ten minutes or so of military display seen on that second Saturday of June each year, weeks and weeks of meticulous preparation is conducted by the lucky soldiers who find themselves performing in it. Occurring two Saturdays prior to the big day, the Major General’s Review of the Trooping the Colour is a complete full dress rehearsal for everyone except the few members of the royal family who aren’t required until the following week’s practice. The parade is so close to the real thing that they even sell tickets to the public to watch it.

Getting to work on that first Monday back after my long weekend in North Wales was, again, a shock to the system. The dates and times for every rehearsal, every horse exercise and every inspection were published for us all to look over; it made grim reading. Life was busy indeed, but before I could worry too much about it all I was pulled into the office by the troop leader.

The soldier who was currently looking after our troop leader, someone I didn’t really know as they’d always be working over in
the mess, had apparently pushed his luck a little too far and was being sacked. The job was now being offered to me.

Although I’ve painted the job as quite ridiculous, it was a million times better than working in the yard with the other lads and the horses. For a start, you didn’t have to do duties – ever. No Queen’s Life Guards, no state escorts, nothing. Your sole
responsibility
was the officer you were charged to look after. Nothing else mattered, but if you did fail at this primary task you’d be sacked and returned to the harshness of the troops, and made to wear it somewhat due to being absent for so long. I bit his hand off. I remember him asking with a look on his face that suggested I’d be offended, but he’d barely finished his sentence before I accepted the job offer. I was to be 2 Troop leader’s orderly. The best part of the job was the fact that you had every weekend off, unless, of course, your officer was needed on duty.

The orderlies were pretty much considered the most
organised
soldiers within the regiment. The guys who’d completely sorted out their own lives and responsibilities would naturally be the best to sort out the officers’ lives and responsibilities in a similar fashion. As well as being wholly accountable for security, cleanliness and usability of all the relevant kit an officer needed to execute his duties, the orderlies also ran the mess in which the officers lived. The orderlies would set the dinner table, chase up officers for their dinner orders, iron the napkins and even prepare the drinks, usually wine, for the daily lunch with the commanding officer. Sometimes an important guest would be booked in for the lunch. On one occasion, Princess Anne was in for lunch after riding a Blues horse in the park. I served her lunch like I would anybody.

Every officer had his place at the dinner table. The
commanding
officer would sit in the centre; opposite him, the adjutant. Heading out either side of both men would be the remaining
officers; the further away from the centre they were sat, the less important they were within the regiment. Stood behind everyone were a handful of orderlies dressed formally in Blues who were waiting on the lunch.

We’d stand around for an hour, clearing each course and
offering
wine as the business of the regiment was discussed. Orderlies were very useful to the corporals of horse who ran the troops at the other side of the barracks, where we all kept loyalties. If something quite important was overheard at the dining table, an orderly, out of respect, would pick up the phone and pass the sensitive information on accordingly; if there was going to be a surprise spot inspection, for instance. It was very beneficial being such an early-warning system at such a very junior level.

I knew I’d enjoy the pace of life in the mess but, more
importantly
, it offered me much more stability than I’d been used to in the troops, constantly going on Queen’s Life Guard and the like. And it was a very fortunate turn of events now that Thom was on the scene. I was able to plan my life – once I’d planned that of the officer I was now responsible for.

My first major tasking was this first rehearsal of the Trooping the Colour – the Major General’s Review. I spent the remaining days of the week preparing my officer’s kit, his boots and brasses. I found this a doddle, going through all his uniform at a good pace without the distraction of a horse to wash down or a yard to sweep. Before I knew it, the Saturday morning arrived.

As always, the regiment was formed up on the square ready for the colonel’s inspection prior to setting off down the Mall towards Horse Guards. After the colonel had walked the two lines of the regiment, he made his way to the officers, with me and the other orderlies stood to attention next to our bosses. I considered how ridiculous it was that the colonel would tell his officers off for having poor boots or something, give them quite
a dressing down and then, once he’d walked off to the next, the orderly would get it in the neck from the officer. I couldn’t figure out why the colonel just didn’t address his bollocking to the orderlies in the first place.

For that first rehearsal my officer was fine. I’d turned him out to a high standard, the same standard I intended to turn him out to on the big day itself. Once the regiment departed, the other orderlies and I headed up to the bar for coffee to pass the time; we couldn’t knock off because we were needed to help the officers get undressed after the parade.

A soldier in the Household Division, whether he be in the cavalry like me or in one of the five Foot Guard regiments, looks forward to his first Trooping of the Colour. The Queen’s Official Birthday Parade is the highlight of any ceremonial season, unless there’s something unique planned like a jubilee or a wedding; to not be a part of it is a very tough pill to swallow. I realised on that Saturday afternoon that in a fortnight’s time the lads would be riding out of the gate to the main event, beaming with pride at being the Sovereign’s personal escort in front of the entire world. I wouldn’t be one of those lucky men. I’d missed the previous year because I was doing Escort Guards, something junior members of the regiment found themselves doing for the initial stages of their careers within the regiment. I’d shrugged it off the previous year, assuming there’d always be next year; next year had arrived and again I wasn’t sat in the saddle. Though I was disappointed, I wasn’t envious of the boys stuck right in the middle of this hectic period; their lives were simply put on hold while they prepared for the state ceremonial. Besides, I was involved, although not on the front line, and was still enjoying some normality. The chaps were quite envious of us orderly guys. Everyone wanted to be an orderly.

After the first rehearsal, the regiment returned and the dismount was carried out. Away the horses were put and the men
broke down into skeleton crews before knocking it on the head for a well-earned 36-hour rest. The Blues and Royals headed out en masse to unwind in the West End and, in keeping with my recent lifestyle changes, I stayed behind and had a movie night in the barracks, alone. The nightlife just didn’t appeal to me any more after meeting Thom.

On the Sunday afternoon, after a well-deserved lie-in and roast dinner, I sat at my desk and began to write Thom a letter. I didn’t usually write letters, but it felt like a nice thing to do, so I took pen to paper and began expressing myself on the page.

I wanted to tell Thom how, in the space of a short time, he’d affected me and how it felt like he’d changed my life. I decided to write him a short story entitled ‘The Most Beautiful Boy in the World’. I wrote about a boy who had completely lost his way in the world, who had been thrown from the steadiness of the countryside into the energy and busyness of city life. I described how dark a place he’d found it to be and how he’d considered life was just going to be miserable for ever. Then, out of nowhere, he meets another country boy who helps him realise that there is something else out there. I ended it by saying that ‘although the most beautiful boy in the world would never realise it, he’d saved somebody’s life’.

It was true. Thom had saved my life. The dark nights of my appalling recent past, sooner or later, would have been the end of me, I’m sure. That was all now behind me.

The letter was well received and Thom still has it today. I noticed in the weeks and months that followed that he carried it on his person almost constantly, or had it in his bag at work.

The week leading up to the second rehearsal flew by, and Thom and I made plans for him to come and stay with me the weekend after the Trooping. He’d been to London before with his family and loved the place. I was delighted he’d be coming to stay.

The second rehearsal, the Colonel’s Review, during which the Duke of Edinburgh would give his nod of approval, went
swimmingly
and the regiment entered the final week leading up to the big day. Everyone was working at full steam, including us boys in the mess.

I finished the troop leader’s kit off on the Friday afternoon and spent the rest of the day relaxing before the big event. I wished I was going to experience the parade first-hand on top of Quality Street with the rest of the boys instead of watching it on television.

The excitement of riding on a state escort is immeasurable. Everyone working together to keep covered off in perfect order, the centre NCO barking commands left and right of the line telling people to either kick on or rein back. The panic in
everyone’s
stomach when the royal carriage speeds off and the entire regiment is forced to ride faster and faster, all while
maintaining
smartness and discipline. The banter between the lads in the middle of all this excitement is incredible. I remember laughing along with Faulkner as we both rode only a few dozen metres behind the Queen, with one of the other boys losing his
stirrups
and sliding off his saddle as the carriage opened up on the Mall. Tears literally rolling down our cheeks, we cheered as he finally gave up and accepted that he was falling off. Watching the Trooping on TV was a stressful experience in itself. I knew my whole family were watching back home and from the text messages I was getting from some relatives, news that I wasn’t on parade obviously hadn’t been passed around like I’d asked. It was a beautiful day – the second Saturdays of June usually are – and the entire regiment looked magnificent. I was jealous. Well, there was always next year, I thought.

I dismounted my troop leader from his horse and walked with him to his dressing room. He was full of adrenalin after
the success of the parade and was looking forward to dinner at some venue in town. The other orderlies and I, however, weren’t able to knock off in earnest like the officers. Monday was another important day on the ceremonial calendar: the Garter Ceremony at Windsor Castle. All the officers’ kit needed to be prepared fully for the Monday afternoon ceremony. The boys in the troops were in the same position too; they had to be turned out immaculately. The celebrations were put on hold and the regiment, less its
officers
, carried on with endless kit cleaning. One final push!

Thom and I continued our daily chats over the phone, and excitement began to build between us over his impending visit to London. The three weeks were flying past. I was to finish work on the Friday and have the entire weekend off and spend it exclusively with my boyfriend.

In mid-2006 a rule had been introduced in Knightsbridge that allowed soldiers to have their partners stay over at the weekend, as long as permission had been granted from the squadron leader. Simply, you had to submit a form and a decision would be made by the major commanding the Blues and Royals. He’d sign the piece of paper and it would then be held in the guard room so that the regiment would know exactly who was in the barracks over the weekend. It wasn’t that long since the front-page
scandals
of 2005, so the hierarchy was quite particular about the process and the boys were made to follow the rule to the letter.

I gained a form from the squadron office and filled it in with the dates of the forthcoming weekend and Thom’s details. It was all straightforward but very personal. It asked the name of the guest and the guest’s relation to the host soldier. I had no
problem
filling it in accurately, but considered whether it would be met further up the chain of command with ignorance.

About a day later I was called into the clerk’s office to pick up the consent form and was horrified to see that it had been
rejected. I asked the clerk why and he simply said they didn’t give a reason. They didn’t need to. I considered for a moment storming into the squadron leader’s office and demanding an explanation, but what was the point? The squadron leader might not have known anything about it. The form might have been rejected further down the chain before landing on his desk. Anyway, imagine a trooper pushing his way into a major’s office. I’d have been in serious trouble.

Quite simply, the army just wasn’t ready for a gay soldier to have his partner stay over on base yet. I felt let down but didn’t know who to turn to. Where on earth would we stay? Fortunately a civilian pal offered us his place while he was out of town, but it didn’t remove the sting from the army’s blatant unfairness.

I was given a tasking for the remaining days of that week after the Garter Service at Royal Ascot. The officers of the Household Division have their own enclosure at the upmarket event, run by the orderlies who work in the mess. I was to drive there on the Tuesday morning and set up a wine bar for the officers of the regiment to enjoy before they headed into the main enclosure for the afternoon’s racing. It sounded like a brilliant little job after the fairly mundane ordeal of cleaning kit for parades. My line manager accompanied me on the first day to ensure I was doing the job properly; a senior NCO, he spent the day wandering around the many different enclosures of Royal Ascot, dropping in on me to check if I was OK. Once the
officers
had gone off to enjoy the racing, he approached me with a bizarre request.