A former Army Captain implores: It's time for our brave service men and women to once again proudly wear their uniforms in public EVERY DAY
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On May 8 and in the days before, millions of Britons will celebrate the 80th anniversary of VE Day, marking perhaps the greatest moment in our nation's history.
At the centre of ceremonies up and down the country, our soldiers, sailors and aviators will have pride of place in their full dress uniforms, with boots polished and brass buttons shining.
It is a sight as stirring as it is now rare – for, outside of major commemorations, when was the last time you actually saw a soldier in the street? The men and women of our Armed Forces are simply nowhere to be seen.
Head abroad to more patriotic climes and you'll find that men and women in uniform are a familiar fixture in town squares, giving directions and posing for photos, or at ease in shops and cafes, chatting and drinking. Go to many Baltic cities and you will even see our own troops, uniformed and looking more relaxed there than here.
Of course, there was a time when our forces were as visible in Teesside as in Tallinn, action men and women instilling in many a youngster a sense of wide-eyed admiration and giving a reassuring sense of safety.
So what has happened?
The truth is tragic. In 2013, Fusilier Lee Rigby was murdered outside his barracks in Woolwich in south-east London.
While he had not been in uniform, his sweatshirt bore the logo of the 'Help for Heroes' military charity and a camouflage-patterned rucksack was slung over his shoulder. Two Islamist terrorists ran him down in a car and set about him with knives and a meat cleaver in a barbaric attack that shocked the nation and left an indelible scar on the Army.
The Ministry of Defence (MoD) temporarily ordered soldiers not to wear their uniforms in public – outside official engagements – while they assessed the risk. Overnight, the culture changed. The public might be dangerous, it was reasoned, and wearing a uniform was unwise. And so the sight of squaddies in fatigues down the pub or out in town suddenly became vanishingly rare. Recruiters followed, forced away from visible leafleting in the high street by budget and personnel cuts.
Today, the MoD says service personnel are 'encouraged' to wear uniform in public outside official engagements – though not in Northern Ireland, for sadly obvious reasons. In practice, however, it simply isn't worth the hassle to identify yourself as serving in the Armed Forces. Some units still ban it outright. And, as the guidance points out, soldiers are not insured if anything happens to them while off-duty.
So, inevitably, soldiers feel more comfortable behind the high walls and razor wire of their bases.
I should know; for six years, I was one of them, rising to the rank of Captain in the Royal Artillery.
Often I was advised to change into civvies before leaving barracks. Sometimes, I was ordered. If I did find myself wearing camouflage in public, I felt exposed. Eyes bored into me and I wondered how friendly they were.
But why should it matter that the Armed Forces have retreated almost entirely from our public spaces? Well, for one thing, we are facing a recruitment crisis. Even at its hugely diminished headcount of 70,000, the Army cannot find enough full-time soldiers. Last November, Defence Secretary John Healey revealed the Armed Forces had been suffering a net loss of 300 full-time personnel each month. As war looms ever larger on the horizon the size of our Armed Forces is of critical importance. Increased defence spending is welcome, as is a new quango (the Armed Forces Recruitment Service) to streamline the inefficient application process, but the task of filling our barracks remains enormous.
Each journey into the Army is personal. As a boy, I marvelled at the smart, confident soldiers I saw at a military-organised hiking event on Dartmoor; I will never forget the Marine who offered me a ride in a Sea King helicopter, nor the flight that followed.
Then there were my grandfathers, veterans from the Second World War and the Suez Crisis respectively – good, brilliant men who told me time and again how the Army had been the making of them. It was little surprise that at 14 I decided I would join the military. I was also lucky. I had no health issues, no skeletons in the medical closet that might prevent me from joining. Many did, and today more than ever.
Yet what followed was the most exhilarating, challenging and fulfilling time of my life. I drove the moonscape deserts of Oman and hiked in skis over the frozen mountains of Norway. I fired artillery so powerful, the very earth beneath shakes with ferocity.
Then once, while looking for a fuel depot, I managed to navigate my entire unit to the middle of a farmer's empty field.
I had been given the wrong grid by a superior officer – a practical joke that was a gift to the greatly amused soldiers under my command, and an early lesson in humour and humility for me.
It is a career today that too many young people don't even consider, inspired more by influencers than our Captain Toms.
The top brass fear the risks of uniformed soldiers in public, of people goaded into confrontation – or worse. It can be sinister.
One friend running a Covid testing centre during the pandemic was continuously insulted by the same man every day. Thankfully, most self-righteous keyboard warriors go very quiet when faced with the real deal.
But the top brass should also see the opportunities, trusting their soldiers will be seen helping the public, engaging with people, perhaps inspiring more youngsters to join, as happened with me. Right now, it's like the military is scared to reveal itself in public. As if the terrorists have won.
I would encourage all those in the Armed Forces to wear their uniforms proudly. It would show that they are here, and that they are ready. After all, if they can't cope with Crawley High Street, do we seriously believe they could hack the steppes of Ukraine and face down Putin's murderous mob?
My grandfather appreciated the importance of being visible in public as a veteran. Every year, he would lay a wreath at his village church service on Remembrance Sunday, a living link to the terrors and triumphs of the Second World War.
He died part-way through my officer training course, never quite getting to see me in the uniform that he had once worn. But later that year on Remembrance Day, wearing the khaki tunic of the Royal Artillery, I joined my grandmother at their church to lay the wreath in his stead. I have never stood so tall in all my life.
Eighty years after the end of the war in Europe, the very last of that noble generation are passing on, men who sacrificed and achieved so much. They are irreplaceable, of course. But somehow we must find a way to inspire our young people to carry the torch.
Christopher Welsh spent six years in the Royal Artillery and retired as an Army captain.
