Major Conflict Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER ONE - Toy Soldiers and Saris

  CHAPTER TWO - Starbursts and Cigarettes

  CHAPTER THREE - The Boy on the Rock

  CHAPTER FOUR - Coins and Butter Bars

  CHAPTER FIVE - Steel on Target

  CHAPTER SIX - Skunks and Golden Dragons

  CHAPTER SEVEN - Old Castles and Licensed Whores

  CHAPTER EIGHT - Meeting the Troops

  CHAPTER NINE - Reforger

  CHAPTER TEN - Brawling Outside the Bulldog; Gustav in the Morning?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - The Second Spotlight

  CHAPTER TWELVE - Desert Shield

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - War for Love

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Daddy, I’ll Be Good

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Desert Storm

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - The Stirrup Modification Kits (Caissons) Go Rolling Along

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Greg in Scarsdale

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Flying Watermelons and Platinum Blondes

  CHAPTER NINETEEN - The Bible and Bulgogi

  CHAPTER TWENTY - Heartbreak and Liberation

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Bob in a Black Velvet Dress

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Fort Bragg: Command

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Driving North, Home

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  To my grandparents, who loved me unconditionally and who will always be my heroes, and to the men and women who serve in silence, your sacrifice and perseverance will be recognized soon.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Whenever I used to pick up a book, I would thumb past the acknowledgments so I could dive right into the first chapter. Now, of course, I realize that no book is written truly alone and I will always stop to find out about the people who made a difference for the author. I could probably write a book recognizing the many contributions of the people that I cite below. However, even though space is limited, I wish to dwell a moment on several very important people without whom my efforts would never have come to fruition.

  I want to begin with my agent, Ian Kleinert, who is a consummate professional and a genuinely good person, whom I respect greatly. Ian has been there for me every step of the way, looking out for my best interests. He is probably the most patient person I know, having taken countless phone calls from me, as he guided me through the entire process. His agency has the feel of a large family that really cares about the people they represent. I am truly lucky to be associated with such a wonderful group. A special note of thanks to Kathy Barboza who was always helpful and kind over the phone, a company couldn’t have a better person to greet its clients when they call.

  I wish to thank my editor, Stacy Creamer, for believing in me and giving me the opportunity to tell my story. She is a great listener and a warm person who was easy to work with. Her insight taught me many things about writing and I admire her greatly for her keen intellect and sophistication. I also wish to recognize her assistant, Tracy Zupancis, whose diligence and thoroughness will make her an editor in chief one day. Her kind, gentle manner always brightened my day whenever we spoke.

  Of course, how could I not take a moment to recognize the men in my life, Greg, Paul, and Billy. To Greg Torso, thank you for being there for me. Your recollections and insight, not to mention your journals, gave me the added perspective that allowed me to look at my life more deeply, resulting in a more nuanced book. Thank you for helping me with your opinions and revisions. Special thanks to Chelsea and Dave for letting me use your home and for your insightful feedback. To Paul, thank you for understanding. To Billy, I love you, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. To my mother, I love you.

  To my friends, Willy, Jeffrey, Charles and Maurice, Andrea and Claudio, Carla and Michael, Michael Littler, Sari, Julia, Jason West, John Shields, Erna Berger, Dr. Duggan, Christine Karam, Emily Kerr, Steven and Denise, Tara, Larry Cavazza, Cindy Delgado, and Judy Mayle, you guys are simply the best.

  To my beloved and much missed friend Vincent, you inspired me to be more than I could be on my own, I miss you deeply and will love you always. To Jed, his partner, your loyalty, love, generosity and kindness make you a true hero and I am honored to call you my friend.

  To my boss, Jim Stephens, thanks for being a great leader and busting my balls relentlessly to be the best salesman I could be. To my district, Amy, James, Tom, Paul, Pete, Ted, Tom, and Chris, There isn’t a better bunch to work with anywhere.

  To my comrades in arms, in particular Duncan Barry and his lovely wife, Tonianne, Paul Mapp, Brian Hathaway, and Mike Poling, thank you for being heroes and patriots, I love and respect you guys because you made me a better person.

  Finally, if I missed anyone, thank you for being there for me.

  INTRODUCTION

  JULY 22, 1991. SAUDI ARABIA

  The ancient yellow school bus was obviously not built for comfort. And it certainly wasn’t built to travel over the sun-baked roads of Jubail, Saudi Arabia. The road was lined with crevices and holes, and as the old bus rolled into one and then the other, it felt as if my kidneys were being dislodged and my lunch would soon be out the window. Add the heat—a relentless, blinding, 110 degrees—and it’s not a great leap to say that we were living and working in a place not unlike hell. The view through the dust-caked windows often confirmed our suspicion that we’d been dropped to that lower place. Toothless men wearing torn and shabby robes stood by squat, sun-bleached buildings made of concrete block, eyeing us with suspicion and hate. It wasn’t hard to imagine one of these men, rushing toward the old yellow bus, a bandolier of C-1 or dynamite strapped around his waist, in order to take out the Western infidels. I knew I wouldn’t feel safe until we were wheels-up in the transport plane.

  This tour of duty had been an especially hard one. Six long months of MREs (meals ready to eat, also called Mires) and sleepless nights spent on uncomfortable cots. But it was all good now. Now that we were leaving the kingdom, it was all just sandy water under the bridge. We were on our way back to civilization, back to Europe—to Sitting on the plane, I couldn’t help but think how much the axis of the world had changed in just one short year. Prior to this mission into Saddam’s hell, we were still in full Soviet mode, covertly moving along the East German borders, working up battle plans in the event of a thermonuclear war. We were busying ourselves with the day-today tasks of war without actually firing a shot. Staring out the window on my way back to Germany, I couldn’t help thinking, God love the gentlemanly tones of the cold war! But all that had come to a thunderous halt when one egomaniacal tyrant decided to tinker with the geography of the Arabian Peninsula. Saddam Hussein embarked on a gamble that he’d eventually lose, and lose big, leaving his elite Republican Guard with fifty thousand fewer men.

  Before the war actually began we all thought it was going to be a toe-to-toe heavy-metal battle. We had acquired much recon and been briefed on the fighting capabilities of the Republican Guard, which, with over more than five hundred thousand troops, was the fourth-largest army in the world. We knew our mission, and we were going to have to hit them with the force of a jackhammer. Plain and simple: that was our job. Our task was clear, and there was no room for error.

  Of course we had great confidence in our own capabilities. We were the best-trained army on the planet, and we were able to maintain a high level of readiness on every terrain imaginable. What we didn’t realize, though, was just how easy it would be, how one-sided the victory would end up being.

  Technically it was a three-day war, supremely executed by all the armed forces of the United States. When it was over, we pretty much owned Kuwait and had to remain
there to keep the peace until the oil-rich country was back to normal and reestablished as a free and sovereign nation.

  I served as a lieutenant in Operation Desert Storm and Desert Shield. For six months I served proudly and without question in these campaigns and as a result was awarded a bronze star and various campaign medals. The unit I was in received a valorous unit citation. I think I was most proud of this since, as their leader, it felt as if my own sons were being honored. After the war I felt as if I was on top of the world. Finally, I was truly where I wanted to be: a leader, an officer, a gentleman, a soldier. Still, something was missing. Sitting on that plane heading back to Germany, I knew that in order to achieve my goals I’d made a great sacrifice, namely a big chunk of myself, and I was beginning to wonder how long I could continue being just half a person.

  I’d always believed that everything was possible, that any problem put in front of me could be solved with hard work, strong will, and unwavering determination. So I thought that this problem, this feeling of incompleteness and need for companionship, wouldn’t be any different. I’d figure out a plan, execute it, and presto! I’d be whole, problem solved. I was wrong. In the end the problem was, in fact, unsolvable, at least unsolvable as long I stayed in the military. At some point I’d have to make a choice.

  As we landed at Rhein-Main Airport I pushed all these thoughts from my mind and did what I usually did: focus on my next assignment, focused on work at the expense of my feelings. I knew I’d be promoted to the rank of captain soon, and with that commission the possibilities would be endless.

  In the end, I just couldn’t continue with the charade. Initially, I worked harder than ever, taking on the toughest assignments in the hope that I might beat the odds, redefine the game, and find my way. But at the same time, I was finally realizing that it was time to move on.

  Once I’d made the decision it felt as if a great fog had lifted. Everything in my life started to ring as clear as a bell. I knew that it would be hard, that I’d have to start all over, but I knew any difficulties would now be cushioned by the fact that I’d never have to lie about myself again.

  We all make sacrifices. We all make compromises. I wanted to be a soldier. So I compromised for a while. I sacrificed a part of myself in order to achieve my goals. But had I continued on any longer, my accomplishments would have amounted to a Pyrrhic victory. I wasn’t prepared to keep compromising. I left the military in order to save myself. This book is that story, a unique inside look at the U.S. military, where I served as a gay soldier in the Gulf War.

  A R 635-100

  S-12 Moral or professional dereliction in interests of national security.

  (7) Commission or attempted commission of a homosexual act.

  Upon substantiation of allegation this gives rise to serious doubt as to the advisability of permitting the officer in question to retain a commission or warrant and requires a review of his overall record. The commanding officer will refer the individual for medical evaluation, immediately revoke his security clearance and deny any access to classified defense information.

  Punishment under Uniform Code of Military Justice, Article 15: Elimination action may be originated via court-martial.

  The above are charges and specifications from the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). What it states in layman’s terms is simple: once it is deemed that the accused is a homosexual or has engaged in a homosexual act, he will immediately be dismissed from the U.S. armed forces regardless of tenure or past military record.

  Imagine, if you will, having to live with this statute’s consequences hanging over your head for most of your adult life. Imagine having to worry every single step of the way, on assignment as a commander on the battlefield during the Gulf War, during peacetime in Kuwait and Germany, as a special weapons officer in the nuclear reliability and security program, that somehow, someone has found out, and that someone is now revealing your secret to someone else, effectively ending your career, a career you’ve devoted yourself to heart and soul, a career you’ve truly believed in from day one, a career that was a childhood dream, a calling. Forget becoming a colonel. Don’t even think about becoming a general. That’s all over now. Everything you’ve done in your life up to this point has now become null and void. All because of your sexual orientation. All because you’re a man who loves men. All because that orientation was deemed, a very long time ago, somehow suspect and a threat to the interests of our national security, not to mention simply unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman.

  I am Major Jeffrey McGowan. I lived under just these conditions for twelve years while proudly serving this great country of ours. I now respectfully add my voice to the ever-growing chorus of gay former soldiers who’ve served well and served proudly under the cloud of a policy that makes the challenge of the military an even greater one than it needs to be.

  I have no ax to grind. I knew what I was getting into. And I’m proud of my accomplishments in the military. This book is merely my attempt to shed some light on the issue and perhaps give hope to the many patriotic gay men and women who even now, even today, are serving honorably in the U.S. armed forces, men and women in Iraq, in Afghanistan, and all over the world, working hard (and sometimes dying) to defend the interests of our country and to preserve our unique way of life.

  More than anything, however, this book is a personal journey, one man simply coming clean with himself, telling the truth about being a gay man in the military, as an officer and as, I hope, a gentleman.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Toy Soldiers and Saris

  I’ve always wanted to be a soldier. In fact, I can’t remember a time when I could imagine being anything else. It was, I think, my destiny; my path was preordained. I guess I was lucky since this tunnel vision made life easier for me. While friends flailed around in their late teens and twenties, changing majors, jobs, cities, I stayed the course. There was never any question in my mind. And I knew this at a very young age. It just always felt like some fundamental part of my being. Becoming a soldier seemed as necessary to me as fulfilling the most basic of needs. There was hunger, thirst, sleep, and then there was soldiering. Later on there would also be sex and love, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

  I don’t come from a military family. In fact, though the men in my family served in the armed forces, they served only when drafted, and when their term of enlistment was up, they hurried back to civilian life. A man had a duty to his country, I was told, but once that duty was fulfilled there were far better things to do with your time than playing with guns and bombs, especially if you lived in the greatest city in the world.

  That city was New York, of course, where my family had lived since the turn of the last century. I’ve traveled all over the world as a soldier, and I still believe that New York City is hands down the most amazing place on the planet. To grow up in New York is like being born with a special talent, like being given something extra. Rich, poor, white, black, Asian, Latin, Arab, Jew, gay, straight, and all points in between, nowhere on earth does such diversity exist side by side in such relative harmony.

  And nowhere is the mix more pronounced than in Queens, particularly in Jackson Heights, where I grew up. Ironically, the area was originally developed in 1908 as a white, middle-class “restricted residential community” by a group of real estate men in anticipation of the opening of the Queensboro Bridge in 1909. It was meant to be a suburban escape from the increasing ethnic mix of Manhattan. The only diversity in this early Jackson Heights, before restrictions against Jews were lifted after World War II, was, oddly enough, a thriving community of gay vaudevillians who began moving in after the number 7 train was built in 1917, connecting the neighborhood directly to Times Square. Since the forties the neighborhood has morphed into one of the most ethnically diverse areas in the country. When you walk down Thirty-seventh Avenue, it’s like being in Shanghai, Moscow, Calcutta, and Bogotá all at once. Walk a block down any main drag in the neighborhood and you’ll
likely hear a half-dozen languages being spoken and pass a half-dozen restaurants, each serving totally different ethnic cuisines. Though the whole world is represented, the newer residents are now primarily South Asian and Latino, and you’ll have a better chance of seeing a woman in a bright sari passing an Ecuadoran restaurant serving roast guinea pig than coming across, say, a Carrie Bradshaw wannabe in her favorite Manolo Blahniks on her way to cocktails. I feel lucky to have grown up in this colorful, vibrant neighborhood. Like many neighborhoods in New York, especially those in the outer boroughs, Jackson Heights feels like a small town, a little village tucked in the great metropolis, a place where people know one another and take the time to say hello.

  I grew up on Eighty-second Street, right across the street from St. Joan of Arc, the Catholic church where I went to grade school every day and to Mass every Sunday. My family was Protestant, but since the Catholic school was the best in the neighborhood, I was duly baptized and then spent the next sixteen years of my life as a student in the Catholic educational system. I have fond memories of getting up every day and putting on my uniform: the gray polyester trousers, the green jacket, the white shirt with the green clip-on tie, and then walking out the front door of my apartment building and simply crossing the street to school. The nuns still wore habits in those days and didn’t think twice about smacking you one good if you got out of line.

  It was in the school yard of St. Joan of Arc when it first became clear just how much I wanted to be a soldier. Like most young boys I got pretty rambunctious in the school yard, wrestling, fighting, chasing this boy or that girl, but what I loved most of all was playing war games—staging epic battles, killing spies, chasing down the enemy. On one occasion I got so involved in being a dive-bomber that I ripped my jacket straight up the back and was sent home by one of the nuns with a note reading, “Please take a moment to explain to young Jeffrey that he is not, in fact, a Stuka dive-bomber, but rather a student who needs to learn how to behave like the fine young gentleman we at St. Joan of Arc know him to be.”