Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier (32 page)

S
itting in the forecourt of Buckingham Palace, once the
centrepiece
of the glorious British Empire, keeping still as possible and Doncaster’s reins in my hands, I carried my sword proudly as we performed a royal salute while the Queen’s carriage pulled into the tunnel leading to the privacy of the palace. Now we had to get out of there fast.

I kicked Doncaster into action and we flew into position exactly on command. Behind me, almost 200 men and horses followed, each painstakingly trying to keep their beasts calm against the constant cheers of happiness for which the royal wedding will always be remembered. Never before had I witnessed so much jubilation and joy. Even with a recession on and the lives of many millions of people around the country marred with difficulty, on that day, 29 April 2011, the world put its worries aside. Happiness was the theme, celebration and joy was the way to express it. Like too many of these great occasions that come along once in a generation, the event passed by incredibly quickly. We were now, led by me, on the home stretch to camp. The job was done, as was my life’s duty as escort to the Sovereign.

Breaking with tradition, at Wellington Arch on Hyde Park Corner, I turned myself around and looked back at the spectacle, sensing that I may never have the opportunity to do so again.
Behind me, beautifully smart and riding along with glee, every single member of the regiment rode on, following in Doncaster’s footsteps. It was something I had to do, something I needed to witness with my own eyes, instead of having to imagine what it must have looked like from the very front for the rest of my life. Albeit a little naughty, I’m glad I did it. The sight was breathtaking.

As we approached the ceremonial gates of our regimental home, the trumpeter, a few paces behind me and riding
alongside
the commanding officer, sounded the royal salute, signifying our return to barracks. As my eyes caught sight of the hundreds of friends and families of soldiers of the regiment who’d piled into the barracks to witness their sons ride out of camp and back in again on this huge occasion, I began to feel overcome with emotion. I led the way for the hundreds of troops behind me and slowed Doncaster down for the command to form up and halt from the colonel, who’d taken up position in the centre of the square.

‘Without advancing, escort to the left!’

The colonel’s command thundered across the barracks and on his final word, I turned Doncaster to the left and the regiment formed up in two huge lines, me at the extreme right-hand side of everybody.

The ceremonial goings-on that follow an escort occurred and all the officers, bar the colonel himself, fell out and left us to it. It was almost time for the moment I’d been waiting for: the regimental dismount.

The colonel demanded we return our swords, and we duly obeyed. The moment was here.

‘From the right, in twos… NUMBER!’

Without hesitation, I screamed ‘ONE!’ at the top of my voice, and the person next to me replied with ‘TWO!’ This continued
– ‘ONE! TWO! ONE! TWO! ONE! TWO!’ – all the way along the line until the very last person screamed out ‘TWO!’

The colonel waited a few seconds and my heartbeat increased in the silence.

‘Prepare to dismount!’ Again, his words were thunderous.

I kicked Doncaster to life and rode forward four horse lengths. I held the reins in my left hand and raised my right arm out straight in front of me, my white leather gauntlet visible for the hundreds of men looking to me for the next command. I halted Doncaster and remained dead still, listening for the silence of hooves behind me before giving the nod to continue. I waited for the token six seconds, the eyes of everybody piercing me, and then I had the guts to wait a little longer. This was my moment.

Sharply, I tucked my chin into my chest and threw my head back, my scarlet plume flickering through the air as I did. On cue, the entire regiment slapped the side of the neck of the horse they were each sat on, signifying the end of the day. The regiment’s eyes were back on me as they waited for my next nod. I swiftly struck my head to the left and gave each man a split second of a glance, ensuring everyone was ready to get off. I threw my head forward and gave the expected nod. On that nod, the regiment threw away the tension in the reins and removed their right legs from the stirrup irons that held them in place. The colonel now needed to give the actual word to get off.

‘Dismount!’

And on command, everyone pulled themselves out of the saddle and held themselves in mid-air, to the side of their saddles, again looking at me. I had one arm raised high in the air, which I suddenly and with force slapped on the side of Doncaster’s saddle flap, creating a loud bang, giving the cue for everyone to land on the floor. I’d dismounted for the last time and as I gave that final smack to Doncaster, notifying the regiment to step down, I knew
I was never getting back on again. I had tears in my eyes as the inevitable dawned on me. Never again would I have the honour of escorting the Sovereign, my Queen, at a state occasion.

I’m not sure what it was that struck me so deeply. I hadn’t particularly considered leaving the army before then, all I knew for sure was that my time on ceremonial duties was again coming to an end. I was heading back to the operational regiment soon, and as my life had started to build around Thom and the home we had started together, I felt that the commitment I’d shown the army since the age of sixteen couldn’t be maintained. I felt it was becoming time to move on.

It’s certainly fair to say that I was a much happier person when in London, as opposed to Windsor, where nobody was likely to pull you into an office and send you off to war. I’d also agree that, all things considered, I’d been exceptionally fortunate with my war experience. I hadn’t lost any limbs and I wasn’t injured in any way. I have friends who’ve not been so lucky. But in 2011, settled down in a meaningful relationship with my husband, I really didn’t overly enjoy the prospect of having to deploy abroad again. It was very often in my mind how much the tour to Iraq in 2007 had cost me personally and I honestly didn’t feel able to put myself in that position again.

Separately from all of this there was my new-found hunger to make right something that was utterly wrong: my ongoing attempt to offer youngsters an insight into my achievements as an openly gay man. The army just wasn’t supportive enough of my continuing efforts in that area. I could sense the
uneasiness
towards my work each time I submitted a leave request to carry out a school visit. Press coverage of my visits was greeted with annoyance by some factions of the military. Some officers just couldn’t stop themselves dissenting in public places such as Facebook. It got to the point where I decided to stop telling the
army I was working with Stonewall for fear that they’d put an all-out ban on the activity. I hated that they didn’t see the
importance
of the work; I hated that it wasn’t as high on their agenda as it was on mine, but I guess it was still progressive times.

In 2011 I’d been ranked again in the Pink List, rising two places to seventeen. I was very honoured of course, but the powers that be in some corners of the military saw it as too much. ‘How can a junior rank be getting so much attention?’ commented a senior officer from the Royal Air Force in a letter to my commanding officer. To top everything off, I received an invitation to a reception at Downing Street for the third time in eighteen months, and on that occasion I’d be the only representative there from the military. Once word was out, it led to a lot of complaining from jealous but influential people high up the command chain. As a junior-ranking lance corporal, elevated by the army to a position of significance in the public eye, I felt completely let down by my employer, as nobody seemed to defend me and tell them to back off. I couldn’t do that myself; how could a junior NCO tell a senior officer to fuck off? The tipping point came when I attended an army LGBT forum
meeting
, a group I’d been instrumental in establishing, at the Army HQ in Andover. The same officer who’d asked me to go on the cover of
Soldier
magazine three years earlier told me, with resentment in his eyes, that they were ‘done’ with my story and that I’d received far more than my fair share of attention and special treatment. There were also comments made about my ongoing youth work with Stonewall and how I ought to leave talking to youngsters to
professionals
in the army. These remarks echoed some of the others I’d experienced from factions in the military that just didn’t want to support the grass-roots anti-homophobia work I was doing with Stonewall. What was the point in being out yet invisible? Where was the commitment to activism, to combating discrimination? I left the LGBT forum that day and never went back to it.

I did consider that perhaps enough was enough but, sitting at my desk at home, I read through the letters I’d received from delighted head teachers, thanking me for giving my time and visiting their schoolchildren to talk so openly about my
positive
experiences as a soldier. I realised that the school visits were vital and if the price for such a job was having to put up with a little bit of crap from jealous old men who’d failed to act as role models themselves, mostly remaining in the closet until it was safe to creep out, then it was a price worth paying.

I was posted back to the armoured regiment in Windsor, understanding that deployment to Afghanistan would follow in due course. This, however, would never come to pass. The
reduction
in troop levels meant A Squadron would be stood down.

Instead I was posted to the south coast of England, to the Crew Training School as an instructor of Jackal, a modern
vehicle
available to troops deploying overseas. I settled into the job well and was able to continue with my youth work on Fridays thanks to the lenience of a very good boss.

The equal marriage debate ignited in the UK, grabbing my attention and driving emotive feelings to the surface as the
opposition
made their case against equality. I was utterly gobsmacked by how overtly homophobic some public officials were being in response to the prospect of equality filtering down to all sections of society. One Member of Parliament commented, ‘Gay marriage is an equality too far.’ The oppression didn’t sit comfortably with me in the slightest and due to the publicity created surrounding my civil partnership two years prior, my name kept popping up in the media.

I realised the homophobic actions of public figures on TV and in the press, and the plight of the many thousands, potentially millions, of school kids up and down the country who were being taunted daily for being different, went hand in hand. I
considered Jessica and the other teens I’d met around the country who’d informed me that they’d been bullied daily for being gay or lesbian. How could a cardinal or a senior Member of Parliament get away with making such direct attacks on the gay community? How could they validate the behaviour of bullies and brush off the suffering endured by thousands of kids like Jessica and her friends? I just couldn’t sit by and do nothing.

The editor of
Attitude
magazine, the most successful and popular gay monthly magazine, had become somebody I spoke and met with quite frequently since I’d become involved in the gay movement.

Matt Todd had taken
Attitude
to great success since becoming editor and had plans to enter into the very heart of the debate with a striking feature magazine on marriage. He agreed with my thoughts on the matter and had been moved to tears over the course of his tenure as a gay journalist to report on death after death of gay teens, bullied to suicide as a result of being
different
. Every time a cardinal or a politician appeared on the news, linking equal marriage to slavery or, in one case, bestiality, he was filled with anger and felt the need to act. When he asked me to do a front cover with Thom, in uniform, to signify that I was man enough to go to war but not man enough to be entitled to full marriage equality, I knew the feature would be controversial. I also knew, without doubt, the army would not give their blessing for it to go ahead and would probably outright refuse to give me permission. It was a very serious matter and a decision I didn’t take lightly.

In my ninth year as a soldier, Thom and I were discussing our plans for the future, exploring when would be best to think about having kids of our own and the like. Since dismounting from Doncaster at the royal wedding nine months earlier, I knew my time in the army was fast coming to an end. What was left for
me to achieve? What was important for me in the future? Being honest, I knew my commitment to the army was far less
significant
than it had been earlier in life. It was time to go. Stubbornly, I was adamant that I would reach my tenth year in the job, so I bided my time to achieve this final goal. On 1 April 2012 I tendered my twelve months’ notice and began to prepare for life after the army; a life I’d never known.

I went ahead with the magazine cover without permission, cementing the end of my career as a soldier in the British Army. Politics was off limits to soldiers and I’d entered into the centre of a subject that was utterly political. But I was enormously proud of the cover and the feature and, even if it was the end of my career as a soldier, I knew it would give hope to youngsters up and down Britain.

When the magazine hit the shelves, Thom and I were purposely holidaying in San Francisco. I noticed the response while away and was overwhelmed by the support we received from the people who’d bought a copy and appreciated my decision to do it. But the military was not impressed. It seemed to me it was OK for me to talk on matters of equality that benefited the army, but certainly not on matters that were as divisive as marriage equality.

I arrived back in the UK and faced the wrath of the army. They had to make a response and that immediate reaction was that if I wasn’t back at camp by 0800 hrs the following morning, I’d be arrested. I protested that I was on annual leave and to call someone in, unless crucially unavoidable, was quite wrong. The person on the phone, my corporal major back in Windsor, wasn’t budging an inch. I was in serious trouble.