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That'll surprise the enemy!

For years I'd been a tough soldier - but behind the combats lay a sexy secret...


Published by: Laura Hinton and Victoria Williams
Published on: 24 January 2013

Trudging through the mud in my army boots, I made my way towards the tanks at base. I'd received word on my walkie-talkie that there was a problem with one of them. Moments later, a young camouflaged soldier had run over. ‘Sorry to call you out, sergeant,' he said. ‘But we're not sure what's wrong...'
Rolling up my sleeves to reveal the skull and eagle tattoos on my arms, I wedged myself under the tank and made a quick inspection. ‘The engine's overheated,' I told him, wiping the grease from my hands.
‘Yes, sir,' he said, saluting me.
We'd been in Cyprus for three months now and life in the army had always been tough. I was 35 and had been in the military for 19 years, serving in places like Iraq, Bosnia and Northern Ireland, steadily rising through the ranks. Giving orders, I kept myself to myself, like I always had. At school, I'd been a loner, hiding away in the library from the bullies.
‘Four-eyes Russell,' they'd tease, mocking my glasses. ‘You're such a loser!'
Well, I'd proved them wrong by signing up to the army. Now I was a part of a culture where I was tougher than any of them.
I worked hard day in, day out, dedicating my life to my job.
By the time I got back to the barracks that night, I was exhausted. Yanking off my army boots, I collapsed onto the bed. Closing my eyes, I slowly drifted back to 13 years before. We were on patrol in Belfast when a bomb had suddenly gone off in front of us. One minute, I'd been talking to my pal Tom, the next he was gone, blown up in front of me. Twisting and turning in bed, I could see the blood again, smell the smoke, hear his screams...
Shivering at the memory, I realised I'd never really moved on from Tom's death. It was always there, haunting me. Crying into my pillow,
I sobbed, not just for him, but for myself. Tom was dead and I was still alive... Yet, I wasn't really living because I was desperately unhappy. For years now, I'd been putting my life on the line, but I'd been lying to myself. Something had been chewing away inside of me for years. I didn't want to be Russell, this tough, macho soldier anymore. I wanted to be someone else. But again, I buried those feelings, scared of what they meant...
Just a few months later, there was a fire brigade strike in Liverpool and my regiment were called back to the UK to help. While there, I picked up a severe eye infection. Eventually, I needed a corneal transplant, but it didn't work. My sight returned in my right eye, but not fully in my left. Soon, I'd been hauled up in front of the medical board.
‘We have no choice but to deem you unfit for service, Russell,' an army doctor told me.
‘I understand,' I sighed. Although I was gutted, I couldn't blame them. So that's how
I found myself, 23 years after signing up, packing my bags and leaving.
Hitting rock bottom, the only work I could find was in a call centre. But it was monotonous and left me a lot of time to reassess my life. Realising I couldn't fight my feelings any longer, I booked an appointment with my GP.
‘I've never told anyone,' I blurted. ‘But I've always felt like I'm stuck in the wrong body. I think I want to become a woman.'
My words hung in the air. I felt ashamed, guilty, dirty even. Yet, I'd known how I felt since
I was a young boy if I was honest. I just believed it was sordid, sinful. So I hadn't snuck around trying on my mum's clothes. In fact, all I'd wanted to do was bury the feelings, pretend they didn't exist. That's why I'd joined the army - it was escapism, a way for me to be the macho man I should've been. Now, though, what excuse did I have? I had nothing in my life that could make me forget these burning feelings anymore.
‘You've done the right thing coming to me for help,' the doctor said. ‘I think you might have gender dysphoria.'
‘So there is an answer to this,' I gasped. She nodded, and within days, I was having counselling.
‘I just thought there was something wrong with me,'
I whispered. ‘There's nothing wrong,' the counsellor insisted. After hours of talking, I knew I wanted to have gender reassignment surgery.
‘I have to spend two years living as a woman before I can have the sex change op,' I told Neil, one of my closest friends.
‘You have to do this,' he said. ‘You've been unhappy for a very long time.'
So the next day, I went to the shops and bought myself some women's clothes. This was the start of the new me, the beginning of my life as a woman. I chose Jennine as my new name.
‘That dress matches the colour of your eyes,' one of the shop assistants grinned. Was she flirting with me? ‘I'm sure your girlfriend will love it,' she added. If only she'd known who it was actually for!
At home that night, I slipped on the dress with a pair of high heels. As I practiced walking around the kitchen, I felt my body slip into its new role. Looking in the mirror, I was surprised by the image reflected back. I painted my nails pink and put on a red wig. I looked more feminine already.
Soon, I'd officially changed my name to Jennine and had started taking hormone replacement tablets. But now that I'd accepted who I was, the rest of the world had to. Heading to work as Jennine for the first time, I donned a sexy red and black dress with my wig, matching lippy and heels. My boss had already warned everyone on my behalf, but I was terrified. Tottering into the building, my heart thumped fast.
‘Morning,' one of the girls grinned. ‘You look great.'
‘Thanks,' I flushed, slipping on my headset. And that was it.
But even though people at work had accepted me, the transition period was difficult. On a couple of occasions, my car tyres were slashed. One day, I was walking down the street when I got abuse from a bunch of yobs. ‘Oi tranny!' they shouted. I felt so small, but I knew I had to stay strong.
‘I've got to ignore it,' I sobbed to Neil. ‘But why won't people just let me be?'
‘You are who you are,' he said. ‘Prove them wrong.'
So I used my military training and put on a brave face. Two years on, I had the operation that rid me of my masculinity forever. Then I had breast enlargement surgery. ‘Go as big as you can,' I told the surgeon. ‘I've waited a long time for these!'
Waking up from the surgery, I was in awe of my new 36C breasts. I looked sexy!
A few months later, I had a mermaid, a leaf and a long-stemmed rose added to my old tattoos. They looked so much more feminine.
A year on from my sex change, I couldn't be happier. I'm still single but looking for that special person to share my life with. I've started a tyre repair business too, which uses skills I picked up from my 23 years in the forces. But I no longer have to pretend that I'm Russell, the tough soldier. Instead, I can slide on my high heels, paint my nails
and be happy as Jennine, the woman who finally managed to break free.
Jennine Jackson, 47, Darlington, County Durham