Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier by James Wharton Read Free Book Online

all as one close happy family, was over. We’ve not been in the same room since nor are we likely to be again. It’s not often in life one can say one has had a life-changing experience. I’m lucky enough to be able to say I’ve had a few. My first life-changing experience was over.
    A few of us 4 Section boys, Rich, Warren, Rutter and me, travelled to Majorca on holiday the following week. It was a typical lads’ holiday in the Med. Very messy, very late nights, lots and lots of drinking, but also our farewell to each other. A swansong, if you like.
    The day we landed back at Manchester airport, the four of us knew, deep down, that we were heading to very different places and that, ultimately, it was the end. We said our goodbyes, lied to each other about meeting up at Christmas and went our separate ways. I was gutted and I think the others were too. I would missRich and Rutter a lot but at least I had Warren, who was on his way to London, like me.
    Unknown to me, it would be London that would offer me the chance to finally accept the truth about who I was. I’d soon find the courage to tell the world I was gay.

5
POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE
    I t was September 2004. After a month of leave in the Welsh countryside, I was to report for duty with the Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment at Hyde Park barracks, London. The barracks, rebuilt in the 1960s, separated Hyde Park from Knightsbridge and was just about the craziest place to have an army base. Our next-door neighbour was the Mandarin Oriental hotel, with Harvey Nicks across the street and Harrods a few dozen yards away.
    The night before, Dean, who was also reporting for duty the following day, stayed with me at my Aunt Audrey’s house in East Grinstead. Their house was an hour from London by train and my Uncle Ray accompanied us the following morning as we made our way to SW7. He threw us in a cab at Victoria, which was the largest station I’d ever seen, and gave the driver
£
20, which I now know is about
£
12 too much for the relatively short drive through Belgravia into Knightsbridge.
    We stepped out of the cab in the new suits we’d bought especially for that very moment and stared up at the large institution we found before us. You’ll know, if you’ve ever walked past the barracks in Knightsbridge, that the smell of horse droppings and stable dust, which at various times of the day changes inits potency, almost knocks you off your feet. I wasn’t overly impressed at this first notable point.
    Sensing we were fresh meat, the cab driver ushered us over to the entrance gate, which you’d miss unless you were looking carefully , and gave us a nod of reassurance, as if he were our proud father bidding us farewell. We pushed the gate and were met by a large figure, who we assumed was angry and inconvenienced by our arrival.
    ‘What are your names, boys?’ he said with a Welsh accent.
    ‘Wharton and Perryman,’ Dean returned sharply, looking at me for encouragement.
    He ticked his list and told us to drop our bags off on the sixth floor and report back to him straight away.
    ‘Your names will be on a door!’ he shouted at us as the lift door slammed shut.
    Both my name and Dean’s were on the same door, as was our Harrogate friend Warren’s, though he was nowhere to be seen. We dumped our bags on our chosen beds and rushed back to the ground floor, which for some reason was actually the second floor in the lift; the place felt like a maze. This confusion, added to the striking smell of horses and stable life, was quite disorientating.
    I remember thinking that we’d probably be told to get some uniform on to carry out some task, but on return to the guard room, the large corporal of horse who had greeted us just ten minutes earlier simply informed us to report back for duty at 9 a.m. the following morning – an incredible twenty-three hours away.
    ‘What do we do in the meantime?’ I squealed.
    ‘What?’ he asked, looking completely baffled by the