Read Online Out in the Army: My Life as a Gay Soldier by James Wharton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Wharton
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our first major challenge: the riding master’s inspection.
The riding master was the most feared man on camp. He was ultimately in charge of all things equine, which in the Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment was everything. His name was Captain ‘Dickie’ Waygood and he went on to train the British Olympic equine team for the 2012 games after leaving the army.
Up until that point I’d been doing rather well and had been appointed the coveted position of ‘Leading File’, meaning I rode at the front of the ride with everyone else following on behind. I was so chuffed and Mum used the news as ammo back home in Wales.
During the week leading up to the RM’s inspection, things started to get very difficult when one or two of us stopped achieving the standards expected and the riding staff cranked the heat up on us. People started to break. When the RM’s inspection dawned, we were all hanging on to what little morale we had left.Without morale we were dead in the water. No sleep, not much food, certainly no free time to relax. Morale was the only thing keeping us going. Well, that and Pro Plus. On that morning, my morale finally went.
After twelve long hours of cleaning my jackboots (and paying
£
100 to one of the older lads to finish them off for me) I walked into the square for inspection, holding Agincourt’s reins as I went. Without warning, someone dropped something making an enormous noise, spooking my beautifully groomed horse. In an instant I found myself crawling on my hands and knees in a puddle of dirty rainwater and horse crap. I was gutted.
Once back on my feet, I stormed out of the main gate and into Hyde Park. The guards on the gate watched in utter surprise at the sight of a young soldier marching off into the busy London park in full state uniform. I had completely blown my top. All my hours of sleepless kit cleaning had been trashed. I thought my career in the Household Cavalry was over before it had even begun and it wasn’t even my fault.
I sat myself down on a park bench next to an old man and his dog. He looked me up and down. I had tears rolling down my face, a sword in one hand and my now water-stained state helmet in the other. ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down, son,’ he said.
I’m not at all spiritual but right then it felt like I was talking to my granddad, Jimmy. It was as if that old man on the park bench was always meant to be sat there waiting for me that Friday morning.
I pulled myself together and walked off back towards camp, from which a member of the guard was now running. When he reached me he checked I was OK and I was taken to the doctor. Although I felt like I’d calmed down, I was still visibly shaking. I had no control over my emotions. The doc told me to relax over the weekend and think of other things apart from horses andjackboots, which he then extended to everyone in the ride. As glad as I was about being granted some downtime to recuperate from the heavy pressure of kit ride, I was sure I’d blown my chances of passing out and joining the men of the regiment. If anything, I’d proved that I couldn’t handle the pressure. I’d failed at keeping a calm head on my shoulders and taking everything in my stride, two hugely important traits for a soldier. Fortunately, Tim assured the riding master that I would have passed the inspection had it not been for the horse being spooked by the loud noise and the rain water. He believed him and allowed me to progress through.
That weekend, all the loose ends of my life came together.
Dean, Jamie, Josh and I headed out to forget about the stresses of kit ride on the Saturday afternoon, finally settling in Fulham where we watched the opening match of the 2005 Six Nations rugby tournament with Wales taking on England. Wales beat England before going on to win the grand slam the following month. I got drunk celebrating with my three English friends after the victory. Later, and after many beers, we got into a
The riding master was the most feared man on camp. He was ultimately in charge of all things equine, which in the Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment was everything. His name was Captain ‘Dickie’ Waygood and he went on to train the British Olympic equine team for the 2012 games after leaving the army.
Up until that point I’d been doing rather well and had been appointed the coveted position of ‘Leading File’, meaning I rode at the front of the ride with everyone else following on behind. I was so chuffed and Mum used the news as ammo back home in Wales.
During the week leading up to the RM’s inspection, things started to get very difficult when one or two of us stopped achieving the standards expected and the riding staff cranked the heat up on us. People started to break. When the RM’s inspection dawned, we were all hanging on to what little morale we had left.Without morale we were dead in the water. No sleep, not much food, certainly no free time to relax. Morale was the only thing keeping us going. Well, that and Pro Plus. On that morning, my morale finally went.
After twelve long hours of cleaning my jackboots (and paying
£
100 to one of the older lads to finish them off for me) I walked into the square for inspection, holding Agincourt’s reins as I went. Without warning, someone dropped something making an enormous noise, spooking my beautifully groomed horse. In an instant I found myself crawling on my hands and knees in a puddle of dirty rainwater and horse crap. I was gutted.
Once back on my feet, I stormed out of the main gate and into Hyde Park. The guards on the gate watched in utter surprise at the sight of a young soldier marching off into the busy London park in full state uniform. I had completely blown my top. All my hours of sleepless kit cleaning had been trashed. I thought my career in the Household Cavalry was over before it had even begun and it wasn’t even my fault.
I sat myself down on a park bench next to an old man and his dog. He looked me up and down. I had tears rolling down my face, a sword in one hand and my now water-stained state helmet in the other. ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down, son,’ he said.
I’m not at all spiritual but right then it felt like I was talking to my granddad, Jimmy. It was as if that old man on the park bench was always meant to be sat there waiting for me that Friday morning.
I pulled myself together and walked off back towards camp, from which a member of the guard was now running. When he reached me he checked I was OK and I was taken to the doctor. Although I felt like I’d calmed down, I was still visibly shaking. I had no control over my emotions. The doc told me to relax over the weekend and think of other things apart from horses andjackboots, which he then extended to everyone in the ride. As glad as I was about being granted some downtime to recuperate from the heavy pressure of kit ride, I was sure I’d blown my chances of passing out and joining the men of the regiment. If anything, I’d proved that I couldn’t handle the pressure. I’d failed at keeping a calm head on my shoulders and taking everything in my stride, two hugely important traits for a soldier. Fortunately, Tim assured the riding master that I would have passed the inspection had it not been for the horse being spooked by the loud noise and the rain water. He believed him and allowed me to progress through.
That weekend, all the loose ends of my life came together.
Dean, Jamie, Josh and I headed out to forget about the stresses of kit ride on the Saturday afternoon, finally settling in Fulham where we watched the opening match of the 2005 Six Nations rugby tournament with Wales taking on England. Wales beat England before going on to win the grand slam the following month. I got drunk celebrating with my three English friends after the victory. Later, and after many beers, we got into a
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