Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier (16 page)

Both Liza and Paul made speeches telling me how proud everyone was of me and, with tears rolling down their faces, they both wished me all the luck in the world. I couldn’t believe that the event I’d been thinking about since I was just thirteen years old – when I’d enrolled as an army cadet in the building next door to the social club I was now having my goodbye party in – was actually about to happen. I was heading away with the British Army to a conflict far, far away. There were lots of laughs and lots of tears as I said my goodbyes. Thom held my hand throughout.

Thom and I were to drive back to Windsor the following day to enjoy the last few days of leave before my deployment. Instead of staying together after the party, I decided I wanted to spend one last night alone in my old room, in the bed I’d grown up in before becoming a soldier. I wanted to wake up and enjoy a cooked breakfast made by my mum. I also knew it would make her very happy knowing that I wasn’t spending my last night at home in somebody else’s house. It felt proper to spend it with them.

I knew that saying goodbye to Mum and Phil would be one of the hardest things I’d ever have to do. Mum’s MS couldn’t stand too much stress and I feared I was putting her in a position where she’d end up very poorly. I also knew that Liza wouldn’t tell me over the phone or by letter if that was the case. It was a day Mum had been dreading since I came home from cadets as a kid telling her I wanted to be a soldier, and boy, was it hard.

As she squeezed me, tears pouring from her eyes, she told me that I meant the world to her and I was very special. She told me she’d write every week and that she wouldn’t stop thinking about me at all. She promised me she’d phone Thom and make
sure he was OK, too. The final thing she did was hand me a small envelope with a letter inside. Handing it to me, she made me promise not to open it until I’d taken off and was surely on my way to Kuwait. The letter was a bit of a surprise but deep down I had kind of expected it. I took the letter, which I would guard with my life, and placed it in my pocket. It was a part of Mum I was taking to Iraq with me. It became sacred the moment she handed it to me.

Thom drove me away, the neighbours from up and down the street waving to us from their driveways as he did, and we began our long journey back to Windsor. We hardly spoke the entire way.

The timings changed almost hourly for our flight out,
something
we deploying troops would identify as an all too familiar trait of the RAF. We were stood down from work but had to remain within three hours of the barracks, just in case our flight was moved forward – there was no more training to be done and everyone wanted to get as much time with their loved ones as possible.

Thom completed his airline training and I celebrated with him and his new friends at their training base near Gatwick. It was such a contrast of new beginnings for us both. We were both about to start something we’d wanted to do all our lives, the only difference being that I considered my challenge as a possible ending. I was sure Thom would be waiting for me upon my return, but the closer to deployment I got, the more I was thinking about meeting a nasty end. I became so obsessed with the prospect of death that I planned my funeral to meticulous detail: who I wanted there, what I wanted to be read, the music I wanted played. It was a very eerie state to be in and I’d
occasionally
find myself spontaneously bursting into tears.

After his training, Thom had some time off before carrying out his first flight the following Friday, the very day that I was
due to leave the UK. Thom was off to Orlando; I was off to Iraq. The contrast was unreal.

The final few days flew by, like I knew they would. It was a relaxed time spent with Thom at Thorpe Park or in Windsor eating out with our friends. He was thrilled about his first trip with work to Orlando, where he’d be staying for about two days before returning. I was a little jealous about his dream job, but I didn’t really say so. He tried to keep his excitement fairly low-key so as not to upset me too much, but who could blame him?

Prince Harry’s troop was told that they wouldn’t be flying out with the bulk of A Squadron and would remain in the UK for a further two weeks acting as a rear party. Nobody could quite understand why, but the boys who found themselves in 2 Troop were obviously delighted they were getting extended leave. Why on earth couldn’t they just deploy at the same time as us?

Friday 4 May dawned, the day we’d finally be flying off to war, and Thom and I woke to face two very different journeys.

I spent the early morning helping him get ready in his nice new uniform. I helped him throw his last few essentials in his suitcase and checked and double-checked he had his passport and air pass. He looked smart in his three-piece suit that
morning
. When he was all ready and fully packed, he gave me a big hug and kissed me goodbye. There was no big ceremony like with Mum. He told me he loved me and that he’d miss me, before turning away and leaving me in the hallway. He’d gone.

I dressed myself in desert combats, put on my new boots specially designed for the hot climates of Iraq, finished my
corn-flakes
and walked the short distance to the barracks. Life for the next six months was on hold.

We drew our rifles out of the armoury, boarded the coach and travelled through the streets of Windsor towards the M4, then away to Brize Norton to board our plane.

I looked at the streets of Windsor as we pulled away, at the majestic setting of the castle overlooking the town below. I
imagined
the Queen looking out of her window back at us all, sending her best wishes with us as she did. I tried to keep the image of Windsor Castle fresh in my mind as I wondered if I’d ever see it again.

Three hours later, having spoken to Mum and Thom before he’d taken off in his 747 bound for Orlando, I boarded the
battleship
-grey TriStar aircraft that would take us the many thousands of miles to Kuwait, pausing to touch the ground with my hands one last time before climbing the steps into the plane. Would I ever touch England again?

As the plane took off over Oxfordshire, I looked down at the green fields and hills below and for the first time in my life, I realised just how beautiful England really was.

As the plane flew into the distance, I clutched the letter Mum gave me and braced myself for what was in it. The contents were very private but very special.

Great Britain, our past, our training and our loved ones were behind us. We faced the uncertainty of the most hostile
environment
in the world, united as soldiers.

W
e arrived in Kuwait a little after 4 a.m. As soon as the door of the plane opened, I was immediately struck by the
intensity
of the heat. It was barely light, but the temperature was far higher than the UK would enjoy at noon in the middle of August.

Desert. There was nothing but desert. We were all initially stationed at an American base called Camp Virginia, complete with its very own McDonald’s. I could get used to working with Americans – they certainly didn’t do anything by halves. Camp Virginia felt about the size of Wales, though in actual fact it was about as big as Hyde Park. It had everything a fighting soldier would ever need. The American troops could even buy their next Ford car, tax-free, and have it delivered to their home upon their return. As well as the McDonald’s, the camp had endless shops for troops to spend all their hard-earned wages in. A British soldier is used to having his three square meals a day; the Americans had four and the option to just turn up as and when they felt like just in case they were still hungry. We’d never seen so much food. Of course, it was all free! The place was just incredible – it was like a big holiday camp.

Our first morning in Kuwait was spent sorting out our belongings and trying to track down our weapons. We had all been placed in huge white canvas tents for our week of training.
There were about a hundred small camp beds in neat rows for us to sleep in. There were no plugs, no TVs, nothing. Just the occasional heavy-duty refrigerator packed with bottles of water. I was starting a fresh bottle the moment I’d finished the last. Once settled, we were shown around the base by the team who would be taking us through our ‘acclimatisation’ package.

Kempy, a guy in the squadron whom I knew well and was close to after serving with him in Knightsbridge, and I wandered the vastness of Camp Virginia. We both felt incredibly dwarfed by the sheer size of the place and by the huge American presence in the region. Later on I spoke to my mum and was surprised to hear that Phil, Nan, Liza and Chloe were all with her at the house. She obviously needed the family around her but I was glad that she seemed to be coping alright.

We spent our time in camp receiving lectures and training for our forthcoming mission. The lectures were endless and generally repeated what we already knew: there were lots of Iraqis up north who wanted to kill us. In the central operating base (COB) in Basra, we could expect to be rocketed at any moment. The bad guys normally sent their rockets at dawn, at lunch and as the sun set in the evening. But you couldn’t rely on there being no other attacks throughout the day.

Though we were well informed about these rockets, for some reason everyone seemed so blasé about the whole thing. Everyone was quite matter-of-fact about it all. ‘When the rocket attack alarm goes off, take cover straight away and hope for the best’ seemed to be all the advice that was needed. It wouldn’t be until I was on the receiving end of rocket attacks in the near future that I’d fully understand how deadly and terrifying they were.

The other thing that was quite clear about the Iraqis was that they liked their roadside bombs, and as we were constantly reminded, there were plenty of unexploded mines and other
munitions lying around from the Iraq–Iran war to fund their methods. Weirdly, the only thing I wasn’t too worried about was being shot. The information we were getting was that the bad guys north of the border were pretty dreadful shots. I almost piped up and said ‘wait until you see our shooting before you judge theirs’, but thought better of it.

Preparations in Kuwait continued, mostly surrounding
physical
exertion in the thick heat. Body armour, my helmet and the endless bits of kit attached to my person made life tough. I looked forward to getting a vehicle on the ground so I could at least offload some of my kit. Before I knew it, my time was almost up. After a week at Camp Virginia, we flew up to Basra in a Hercules. In a weird way, I was looking forward to it.

On 11 May 2007, in the middle of the night, I sat anxiously, yet silently, in a very loud RAF Hercules aircraft as I passed over the border of Kuwait into Iraq. Approaching the border, the crew completely dimmed all lights, making us as invisible as possible from the ground below. Within fifteen minutes we made the steep dive towards Basra International Airport.

‘If the siren goes off while you’re disembarking … run for cover as quickly as possible! We’ll close the door and take off. Make sure you’re out the way of us!’

On receipt of that information, I wondered what the hell was about to happen. Would we be met with attack? Would I be just leaving the ramp at the back of the plane as it was trying to take off to avoid rocket damage? I tightened the strap to my helmet as I prepared to disembark, and took a deep breath.

The central operating base built around what was Basra International Airport before the invasion was a huge base that
most of the servicemen and women in southern Iraq operated out of. It was made up of a number of camps, all individually named and home to a particular set of units or regiments. There was a large offering of welfare facilities, internet cafes, fast-food joints etc., and, of course, the airport, which had been transformed into an Anglo-American airbase. Surrounding all of this were a number of perimeter fences and blockades, constantly patrolled by ‘force protection’.

Walking out of the airport and towards the transport to our camp, passing by signs that had been left at the roadside from its time as a busy international travel hub, it was easy to forget that this was all captured and safe ground. Once in camp, however, I had to keep reminding myself that just on the other side of the perimeter fence was a deadly war zone – the camp was just so big.

The safety blanket wasn’t secure enough for us to walk around without some crucial pieces of equipment. Everywhere I went I had either my rifle or my 9mm pistol; I needed my body armour and helmet constantly in case of rocket attack from above and, as a team medic, I always carried my medic pack and morphine pens in case somebody around me needed them.

A Squadron’s job in Iraq was to patrol the Iran–Iraq border in a province known as Maysan, north of Basra by about a hundred miles. Maysan was a large province of mostly desert, running parallel to the border with a large settlement in its centre called Al Amarah. The squadron would be flown out to relieve the guys who’d been on the ground through the winter months, who were extremely keen to get home to loved ones. Not much
information
was available about how successful they’d been in the area, but we all knew that two of their guys had been killed by a
roadside
bomb a couple of weeks before our arrival. There was clearly activity out there.

On heading out to Iraq I had begun a diary to detail all of
the things that happened while I was away. I wanted to keep something that would remind me of my emotions and instant reactions as I faced the biggest challenge of my life.

Initially I was only having a couple of days in the COB before flying out to the desert to relieve some of the Queen’s Royal Lancers. I spent those two days, apart from constantly diving for cover and dodging incoming enemy rockets, prepping maps and other kit we’d be taking north with us on the helicopter. The night before our very early-morning flight to Maysan I spoke to Thom for one last time before beginning the job I’d travelled so far to do. He excitedly talked about his new job and the new friends he’d made on his first two trips. I sensed lots of partying and late nights while he’d been away and although I was jealous a little, deep down I was glad he had something
to occupy his mind. I finished the call, re-checked my kit and bedded myself down for the few hours of sleep before flying to the desert.

The plan was to relieve the Queen’s Royal Lancers fully over the course of about five days. We had come out on our own initially but were soon followed by the remainder of A Squadron. The final phase was to be the joining of 2 Troop, who were still held back in Windsor. They were due out in about a week’s time, led by Prince Harry. The task, as I saw it, was to be a very overt and visible show of force in the region, thus preventing or
restricting
enemy action. We were close to Iran and we knew we’d have many roles watching the border for suspicious activity. But in those first few days in the desert, I found it difficult to accurately describe what our day-to-day job was. It felt like we were just out there to exist in the blistering heat.

By the time the rest of the squadron flew out and we’d said our goodbyes to the QRL boys, nothing much had changed. We’d travel around the desert, like a large circus in convoy, pick somewhere to pitch our tents, or in this case Israeli cam nets, and then simply be. It was a caveman existence really. Everything we needed, we carried in our vehicles. There were no sanitary facilities, there was no catering tent or section of chefs. Our entire survival hinged on how well disciplined we each were as soldiers.

Every five days or so there’d be an air drop out of the back of a low-flying Herc, a resupply with rations and water, which would then be collected and shared among the troops. Within the FOB group there was a refrigerated container on the back of a truck, but that often didn’t work and would keep water only slightly cooler than the outside temperature. Soldiers became
amateur scientists when it came to inventing ingenious ways of keeping water cool. The same is true about cooking. I’ve never seen so many soldiers, especially Mr Olver, think up
amazing
ideas to change the monotony of eating boil-in-the-bag rations. A few weeks into the tour, Olver had a parcel sent out to him from his friends back in Fulham, full of different spices and herbs. I remember him pulling out ingredients like chorizo sausage and fresh garlic while the rest of us looked on in utter bewilderment.

Occasionally, a couple of guys or even an entire troop would be flown back to Basra for some downtime, if you can call constantly being rocketed from above ‘downtime’. We’d look forward to it massively. It was a chance to grab a shower, a milkshake, phone home or even do a bit of shopping in one of the many shops inside the COB. The whole issue of having to constantly dive for cover was pushed aside somewhat by the thought of those few luxuries. It was something everybody looked forward to.