Pink Camouflage E-Book

Gemma Morgan

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 226

Beschreibung

This is a fascinating insight into a macho, male-dominated world where reality is so grotesquely distorted from the public perception. Read it, believe it, because sometimes the truth is far more incredible than fiction.TERRY BUTCHER, Captain of England Football Team   Her husband found her by the roadside, delirious and choking on her own vomit. Gemma Morgan was 33, happily married with two young children, an outstanding army service record and a first-class international sporting career. But underneath she was a wreck, surviving on a cocktail of vodka, Valium and sleeping pills. Misogyny, sexual abuse and toxic masculinity had been the daily realities of her Army career long before being deployed unarmed and unsupported to the blood and mayhem of a war zone. When Gemma gave birth to a baby girl, motherhood left her lost and alienated, a soldier who had deliberately suppressed her femininity with no idea how to cope. Together, these experiences triggered a mental health crisis that led her to become suicidal, battling PTSD, betrayed and abandoned by the institution to which she had devoted seven years of her life. With the support of her family Gemma has been on a long, hard and bumpy road to recovery. This is her story in her own words. She has told it to inspire a fierce and urgent call for change.   Gemma speaks with powerful vulnerability – you could hear a pin drop. JODIE KIDD Model, Racing Driver and TV Personality

Leseprobe

GEMMA MORGAN is an inspiring keynote speaker and leadership consultant with over 25 years’ experience across the military, business and elite sport. The founder of Morgan Eight Ltd, she is called upon for expert opinions on a range of subjects including women in leadership, resilience, and what it takes to build a high-performing team. Gemma began her career as an Army Officer and was the first woman to be awarded the Carmen Sword from HRH Princess Royal. She was Captain of the Wales lacrosse team, gaining 85 caps and ranked the ‘Most Valuable player in Europe’ at the 1997 European Championships. Gemma took part in a BBC TV documentary about Gareth Malone and the Invictus Games Choir and in 2023 her story featured in the ‘Road to Recovery’ Exhibition at the National Army Museum, London. Gemma campaigns for mental health awareness and is an ambassador for the charity Help for Heroes.

www.gemma-morgan.com

‘Read this and talk to your loved ones. Perhaps Gemma’s greatest service to her country will be in sharing her story, in the hope that future generations do not suffer the same trauma. While the horrors of war will always create casualties, it is the betrayal by her military bosses which stands out as the deeper wound.’

Lieutenant-Colonel (Retd) Diane Allen OBE

Praise for the author

‘Gemma’s writing is a shocking read, exposing the British Army as brutal, misogynist and abusive; devoid of the very principles and ethics it demands its soldiers to uphold. This is a wake-up call.’

Paula Edwards, CEO, Salute Her UK

Gemma’s story is heart-rending, brutal and at times difficult to stomach. The pathologising of her suffering by military leaders has had devastating consequences. Against all odds she has survived and now demonstrates the very best of what it means to serve and protect the freedoms of others. Written with true courage, Pink Camouflage gives hope to all those in our UK Armed Forces who seek justice. They deserve better than this.

Mandy Bostwick, Specialist Trauma Psychotherapist

‘Every time I hear her story, it stops me in my tracks. It is visceral, unnerving and spine tingling. It is also one of hope – great big floodlights of hope. But I don’t have to tell you this, now you can read it for yourself. Thank you for your service Gemma.’

Antony Cotton MBE, actor and patron of Help for Heroes

‘Gemma inspires with powerful vulnerability. She challenges what is means to be a strong leader and has taught me a great deal about finding resilience even in the toughest of times.’

Gareth Malone OBE, choirmaster and broadcaster

First published 2024

ISBN: 978-1-80425-149-2

The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

Typeset in 11.5 point Sabon LT by

Main Point Books, Edinburgh

© Gemma Morgan 2024

Contents

Foreword by Terry Butcher

Dear Reader…

Introduction

1 Serve to Lead

2 The Brotherhood

3 Kosovo

4 Daisy Chains

5 The Ambush

6 Eyes Wide Open

7 The Unravelling

8 The Betrayal

9 Motherhood

10 Dogs and Helicopters

11 No Man’s Land

12 I Am (Invictus)

13 Poison Arrows

14 Soothe and Surrender

15 Breathe

The Metabolic Matrix of Trauma by Mandy Bostwick

To the loves of my life:

Beth, Tom and James

who continue to make me so proud,

you are my reasons for being,

and David,

my rock amidst the chaos,

thank you for standing by me

even when I tried to push you away.

Foreword

RIGHT FROM THE start of this book there is a sense of disbelief and incredulity that this must be a work of fiction and that there has been a very liberal dose of journalistic licence. However, this story is searingly true and cuts right to the heart of life for a female soldier in today’s Army. It is a hard-hitting, graphic, honest and, at times, brutal recount of a promising career tainted with misogyny, trauma and, at the end, betrayal. Gemma Morgan is one of the lucky ones who has survived all kinds of hell to tell her story, in an effort to inspire the many others that are now battling to acclimatise to civilian life.

My son, Christopher, died aged 35, as a result of PTSD from his army service. Like Gemma, Chris was also a Captain, trained at the revered Sandhurst Academy. Upon discharge he suffered similar mental health challenges and expressed so many of the same feelings. It makes you think – does the Army really take care of its own? Pink Camouflage is a fascinating insight into a macho, male-dominated world where reality is so grotesquely distorted from the public perception. Read it, believe it, because sometimes the truth is far more incredible than fiction.

Terry Butcher

former captain of the England football

team, author of Bloodied But Unbowed

February 2024

Dear Reader,

Checking in to a mental health hospital wasn’t part of the plan. This book wasn’t either. I spent years in hiding trying to maintain the façade, after all I believed it was my fault; I accepted that something was fundamentally wrong with me.

I began writing as a form of therapy, trying to make sense of it all. For years, the pages sat locked in a secret drawer because I still felt a deep loyalty to the British Army. Then I read the recent cases of Officer Cadet Olivia Perks, Royal Artillery Gunner Jaysley Becks and the hundreds of testimonials from serving women in the Atherton Report.* The Army says that it has made changes and that mine is a historical case. Recent evidence strongly suggests that there has been little meaningful change.

And so, I feel it is my duty to share my story with you. I’ve included some of the most heartrendering, positive and painful moments of my life. Whilst some names and personal information have been changed to preserve anonymity, I have battled to describe my experience with unfiltered honesty.

Staying silent nearly killed me. Now, for the first time, this is my whole truth. I hope that it may give strength to anyone else who is suffering. It is for you and for those that love you that I have found my voice. This is me and for that I make no apology.

Take care, love, Gem

* The Defence Sub-Committee on Women in the Armed Forces report Protecting Those Who Protect Us: Women in the Armed Forces from Recruitment to Civilian Life. 25 July 2021.

Introduction

HE FOUND ME by the roadside, delirious and choking. I was 33, happily married with two beautiful young children, a poster girl for female achievement with a stellar Army service record and a glittering international sports career.

But behind this golden public image, I was a wreck.

The British Army had taught me to achieve more than I ever thought I could – but it was a lesson that came at a price. The reality of the Army’s quest for gender equality meant moulding – forcing – female recruits to fit masculine ideals. Desperate to be part of the team, I tried to camouflage my femininity, to crush and slowly dismantle my identity.

The Army’s toxic culture – the sexual abuse and misogyny – prepared the ground for the nightmares long before I saw the man lying dead in the snow in pools of bright red, frozen blood. The sexism of life in barracks undermined me long before I saw the shreds of flesh hanging off shattered limbs and the soulless dark brown eyes. I was a soldier, but contrary to everything I had been led to believe, I found myself powerless to alleviate the suffering all around me.

When I was deployed on a highly unusual operation as a soldier out of uniform with no military back-up, not even a satellite phone, the Army neither offered me guidance, nor asked how I was faring. When I came back to Britain, they never asked what it was like to be an unarmed soldier in civilian clothing deployed in the middle of the blood and mayhem.

I left the Army on my own accord. I ran away, hoping the nightmares would stop. There was no medical discharge. One minute you were in. The next you were gone. My new identity ripped from me. The nightmares replayed again and again in my head. I could not unsee what I had seen.

Then a grenade was thrown into the mix. I gave birth to a baby girl. Motherhood left me lost and alienated. I was a soldier who had no idea how to be a mother. The Army had stolen my femininity. Behind closed doors, vodka, Valium and sleeping pills numbed the pain. Panic distorted the world. It left me isolated and alone. I was constantly on my guard, checking behind me, scanning every window, every corner. I stopped answering the phone and hid when the doorbell rang. I walked with a look designed to make someone think twice. I was more like a bodyguard than a mother.

I found myself drowning, gasping for any pocket of air. In the room, but not really present, not part of the world. Parts of me began to shut down. There was no-one to turn to. The ties with my military family had been cut. Back in the day, there was no help from charities like Help for Heroes – they didn’t yet exist. The NHS doctors I saw seemed baffled and confused. Then after seven years of hiding, I hit a rock bottom that led me to that desolate roadside.

In 2006, I was diagnosed with severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. At first, it brought a feeling of intense relief. It was vindication after years of being ignored. Years of thinking that I was at fault. Identifying behind four letters – PTSD – made living easier. It stopped the questions and offered an explanation. I used it to articulate who I was, what I was not and why my suffering and illness were somehow valid.

But as the years passed, I began to wonder how such a short period of time had left such a lasting impact on me. I was in the Army for less than seven years. It was a drop in the ocean, but the ripples of trauma have travelled with me and seeped into each and every part of my life. It has infected those I love and it has destroyed those that I have loved. But I have also been blessed. With the support of my family and the professional help of doctors and therapists I have been able to rebuild my life.

In Narrative Therapy in 2007 we were told to write down our life story. It helped me, but I hated sharing what I had written. This book grew out of that first session. Fear gripped me as I began to write. Each word challenged my urge to remain invisible, to hide. I stopped and put the manuscript away in a drawer time and time again, but it kept calling me back, pushing me to confront who I really am, to make sense of things for myself, on my own. I had to tell this story for the thousands of other women who have been harmed by the toxic culture that pervades the British Army. It is not the trauma that steals so many lives. It is the shame and guilt. This book has been an exorcism: I refuse to entertain this devil into my 50s.

Gemma Morgan

February 2024

1

Serve to Lead

IN JANUARY 1996, I climbed the great white steps of the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, ironing board tucked under my arm. I was 22 and it was the first day of Army Officer Training. I would not walk up the steps of Old College again until our commissioning parade 11 months later.

I had just driven past the guard at the Staff College Gate and along the mile-long driveway through the woods and past the Upper Lake. I felt excited, but I had no idea what was about to come. I parked in front of Old College – the only time I would be allowed to. The main parade ground stretched out in front of the building. I would spend the first term there with the other male and female cadets.

The sense of history was unmistakeable. Pillars topped by a pediment displaying the cipher of George III and supported on each side by figures of Mars and Minerva, the gods of war and wisdom, led you to the door. Cannons from Waterloo guarded the front and the square was flanked by guns from the 18th century and the Crimean War.

Entering the two huge black doors of the Grand Entrance revealed walls covered with antique weapons, silverware and pictures. Stained glass windows in the Indian Army Memorial Room record the close links between the British and Indian Armies down to 1948, with the corridor walls showcasing grand relics of the colonial past. I was met by the Directing Staff who swiftly ushered me off to my accommodation. No first names. From now on I was Officer Cadet Lowth.

My parents had no idea why I had joined up. As a child I had never expressed any interest in being a soldier. There was no proud family military tradition and I had gone to an all-girls school where there was no organisation such as the cadets. I had a friend who had joined the Army and, spurred on by a TV campaign which showed soldiers skiing and jumping out of planes, I decided to join her. It was not necessarily the lifestyle that drew me in; after all, I knew nothing about military life. It was more the boredom of everything else. I craved to escape the graduate ‘milk-round’ and do something truly meaningful with my life.

Walking through the enclave of Sandhurst, I felt the excitement of breaking the rules. I was stepping over the patriarchal line. I was one of the few women to do the same training as the men. Female platoons were still kept separate and only a handful of roles were open to women, but the message was all about empowerment, that girls could have it all. The reality was that in becoming a female soldier I also became an immediate outlier within the very institution I had joined.

I was a middle-class girl from Surrey. I had been brought up to believe that women should have the same opportunities as men. My parents gave my brother, two sisters and I every opportunity. I was the ‘sporty one’. Dad stood on the side-lines of every training session and at each fixture he was there to support me. After a game, we would dissect my performance on the way home. I captained the England under-18s lacrosse side and won a place to study Sport and Exercise Science at the University of Birmingham. After graduating, I started a postgraduate teacher training course for Secondary English and PE. I was inspired by my sports teacher and I decided to follow in her footsteps, but three quarters of the way through I realised it was not for me. Teaching felt more like policing. I was looking for something more.

It was not just the seductive message of female empowerment that brought me to Sandhurst. I was drawn by the Army’s promise of belonging and the idea of service. I joined up, as many of us did, believing that the Army would offer a career with value and meaning. It was well intentioned. I was seeking connection, purpose and belonging. It felt like an adventure.

I had my first taste of leadership as captain of the school lacrosse team. Back then, leading was all about being captain – a given rank, if you like. As I understood it, being captain was about being the best player. I learned to work harder, to train harder, to get faster and stronger. I developed a fierce work ethic and an insatiable, perfectionist drive. I loved the attention that my achievements brought – the awards, the goals, the newspaper articles – and soon became excessively eager to please. Success meant adulation. It made me feel valued and needed. When I first pulled on an England shirt, I remember the look in Dad’s eyes. The pride and excitement were things that we shared together, special moments that would stand the test of time. At home there was no prize for second best.

When I was a child, it never occurred to me that people expected less of me because I was a girl. Being a girl never limited me. I never understood the boundaries, to the amusement and more often frustration of my teachers and parents. I had always been unconventional, challenging the path laid out for me. I played football and outperformed many of the boys, but I was restricted to the garden or park as girls were not allowed in the clubs back then. In swimming lessons, I was determined to wear the same as the boys and persisted each week in a pair of trunks. I saw no reason to squeeze into a restrictive costume or, worse still, a flimsy bikini. I wanted to swim unrestricted, to run, climb and wrestle in the mud. Dad joked that I should have been born a boy. Looking back, it would have been a whole lot easier.

Every Sunday, Sandhurst cadets went to church in the redbrick Memorial Chapel in the middle of Chapel Square, which is framed by pretty Georgian houses. It is a peaceful spot, full of reflection and memory. Solemn but beautiful, it was a place where you could close your eyes and breathe for a moment.

The main entrance faces a bronze statue dedicated to the soldiers who died in both World Wars: a reminder of the close link between officers and other ranks, that we are there to serve them as well as our country. Inside, the names of the fallen of 1914–1918 are recorded on the white marble pillars. A book of remembrance records the names of all officers of Commonwealth armies who died in the Second World War. In the chapel sanctuary there is another book for the years since 1945. A cadet turns the page every Sunday. High up on the walls, small stained glass windows display the coats of arms of all deceased Field Marshals appointed since 1939. The words of Matthew 20:28 are inscribed high above the entrance on the interior wall echoing the Sandhurst motto, ‘Serve to Lead’. I looked up and read it silently every time I filed out of the building:

For even the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve others and to give his life as a ransom for many.

Sandhurst transformed me. It turned my understanding of leadership on its head. The motto is emblazoned on every lectern, every cap badge and in every hall. The leadership here was profoundly different to the model I had absorbed at school. At Sandhurst, effective leadership did not pivot around time served. It was never about being the top goal-scorer or the best technical specialist. I began to understand the importance of investing in my knowledge and building a presence and credibility where others had confidence in me, but the heartbeat of my transformation came from a realisation that leadership is a choice of service. With the focus switching firmly from me to everyone else, I understood that I had a duty to create an environment where others could thrive. I took seriously the need to set the example, to eat, live and breathe the non-negotiable values at the heart of Army life.

We were constantly pushing for performance perfection. The Directing Staff would drive us unrelentingly towards the limits of what we thought was physically or psychologically possible. They would roar at us whenever we failed to conduct ourselves with the required sense of urgency. Shouting was an accepted form of communication – it was what people did to get their point across. We became accustomed to the raw feedback that would hit you between the eyes. Everything was executed at ‘the speed of a thousand gazelles’. Discipline and integrity were non-negotiable. I soon learned the importance of a fastidious attention to detail and an unrelenting daily routine that would form the bedrock of my life.

My behaviours changed. Training taught me to push myself beyond my physical and mental limits. I became a little less human – a tougher, rougher version of myself. I was pleased with the results. The priority was always action. As a cadet you had to walk or run everywhere with a sense of purpose and urgency known as ‘cutting about’. We were taught a polarity of thinking, clearly defined and dualistic. Our role was to seek clarity and control, to analyse the problem and – most importantly of all – fix it.

It was about getting better together, with little regard for precious feelings or the comfortable niceties of life. Training was designed to break you down, learning through pain and fear. Hitting the required standard would allow you to breathe for a moment while failure brought more pain. We were forever on edge, ready to spark on command. I learned to exist constantly primed. There were regular ‘change parades’, where you were forced to change uniforms in ‘quick-time’ over and over again, as a punishment if someone had been late or not tidied their room properly. We wore the same green boiler suit for the first five weeks – as an Officer Cadet you were ranked below the Staff Sergeant’s Labrador. There was the persistent threat of being ‘back-termed’ and having to start all over again. It was controlling, coercive and at times threatening, yet it also formed some of the best memories of my life. For the first time, I understood what being part of a high-performing team really meant. We did not necessarily all like each other, but we pulled together with a strong bond because the instructors created an environment where we really needed each other, where we depended upon one another to survive.

The first cohort of women to be trained alongside the men had entered Sandhurst just four years earlier. The only allowance made in recognition that women might be different from men was that we carried less weight. Army training set out to impose military masculinity, transforming each of us into a soldier capable of the aggression, risk-taking and violence that was necessary. Physical fitness, overt heterosexuality, emotional control, self-discipline and self-reliance were all central components of the regime. Priority was given to physical conditioning, but the methods were archaic. I had just completed a degree in sport and exercise science – but I knew better than to question the efficiency of what we were doing and why. The Physical Training Instructors were set in their ways and believed that everyone should be subjected to the same kind of nonsense they dealt with as young soldiers. Beastings, repetitive physical exercises dished out as punishment with no defined end point, in hard military boots were viewed as a rite of passage. Reporting an injury was a mark of shame – an excuse to get out of training. You would quickly be labelled ‘sick, lame and lazy’ and cast aside. Bright pink ibuprofen tablets were dished out daily as the answer to every ailment or injury. We were told to ‘suck it up’ and ‘no pain, no gain’ was the favourite rallying cry.

I was lucky – my physical strength meant that I could hold my own amongst the men and comfortably meet the fitness standards required. I could keep the pace. I could set the pace. I could leave many of the men behind. But what my talent gave me with one hand could easily be taken away with the other. At Sandhurst, cadets underwent regular individual fitness tests. Women competed against the men. In the Commandant’s Test, an 8-mile run carrying full webbing and weapons followed by an assault course, I finished in the top third. I was congratulated, but the men behind me were publicly shamed as their names were written in white chalk on the blackboard. As a woman, you were damned if you did and damned if you did not. I quickly learned to excel, but not too far, for fear of stepping over the line. I learned how to make myself smaller as I walked into a room in order to survive.

I was given leave to attend an England lacrosse training squad selection. I was fitter than ever and held my own alongside the best players in the country. In a debrief team meeting I spoke up assertively as I had been taught to do at Sandhurst. The room full of women fell silent. I was too direct and abrupt. The coach took me aside. Her words crushed me. What I heard was that I was technically good enough, but I did not fit in. My behaviour was deemed too challenging. Such a short conversation and yet I was devastated. As a young girl, playing for England was everything I had dreamed of, but now I was excluded. I returned to Sandhurst that evening deflated.

Not long after, Wales invited me to trials for their team. I went to the World Cup in Japan in 1997 playing for my new country. Later that year, I was awarded the ‘Most Valuable Player’ of the tournament at the European Championships. I would go on to Captain Wales and win 85 international caps. As I walked on stage to collect the trophy, I had two fingers silently raised at my doubters. I became defiant – torching the past to clear the way.

As one of few women at Sandhurst, eyes were on me all the time. Of the 300 cadets in the junior term, about 10 per cent were women. I knew I had to fit in. I became accustomed to a hyper-masculine environment and assumed the expected behaviours. It mattered, as the team was at the heart of everything. There was no mentoring for women, we simply had to be one of the boys. There were so few of us that it became a ‘dog-eat-dog’ environment. Being the minority in a hyper-masculine culture often meant denying help to those of ‘your kind’. As a result, I had only a tiny handful of female friends and I drew back from sharing my thoughts and emotions with ‘the girls’. In terms of female officers, there were few role models. Our female Platoon Commander would turn up on exercise wearing makeup and earrings, telling us about her blueberry shower gel from The Body Shop, whilst the rest of us were lying in a trench soaking wet and stinking. She had not actually completed this course alongside the men, but the previous course for women only that existed before.

No-one ever writes it down or verbalises it, but it was clear that I would need to perform to a much higher standard to succeed. I had to work harder, run faster. Inevitably, I became more masculine, my tone became more assertive and direct, my presence more commanding and aggressive. There were no heels or makeup, I chose my clothes to blend in. I began cursing profanities mid-sentence with my peers. We understood that emotion and femininity were signs of weakness. I did not want to be the girl in the Army that looked weak, because they already thought that you were weak. I was constantly fighting not to be ‘othered’ and I forced my curvier peg into the Army’s square hole. I did not want to be one of those girls on the parade square with the high-pitched squeal. Throughout my career I believed that if I was tough then I would be safe. I believed that if I was strong, then they would not treat me as second-rate.

The Army is expert in creating togetherness through hardship, shared goals and a unifying sense of organisation