Military Pride

I had a discussion a while back with a friend of mine with whom I served in the military. We were talking about whether or not we’d encourage our kids to join the Armed Forces and I said that I absolutely wouldn’t. I’d do everything I could for them not to enlist. He said that he would be happy for his kids to sign up. There are several reasons for us to disagree on this point, but as we talked about the contrast in opinions he mentioned that he was really proud of having served his country and I remarked that I didn’t really feel any pride at all.  I started thinking about why that would be and thought it might make a half-decent blog post.

First of all, I’ll qualify a few things and lay some background so you understand my military experience.

I served just about ten years in the British military, with around two and half of those years spent in training (Army Apprentices’ College). I was accepted into the Army before I wrote my High School final exams and joined not much past my sixteenth birthday, leaving half way through my twenty fifth year on the planet. I have an Uncle who served twenty two years in the Army and my brother is a Lieutenant Colonel; a rank he has risen to on the back of being a superb soldier and professional. Going back far enough, being British, relatives on both sides of my family served in both wars, so I would say that there was enough of a military influence in the family for this not to be a radical, oddball choice.

When I joined the Army, most people said I wouldn’t last a week. I was a mouthy, stroppy, lazy teenager, so I think that most people probably gauged it right. Luckily for me, I was also stubborn to a fault and I was determined to succeed simply to prove those people wrong. I very quickly realized that military life wasn’t for me, but I didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of quitting, so I stuck out the first 14 weeks of basic training, basically as a big “**** you” to the people who assumed I wouldn’t make it. A little silly perhaps, but a decision I’m glad I made.

My time at military college was, for the most part, enjoyable. In retrospect, I think this is because it was much more school than soldiering. I absolutely hated going into “the field” doing soldiery things. Anyone who knows me well enough knows that I’m not particularly “outdoorsy” so the idea of digging a 12′ x 2′ hole and living in it for days isn’t particularly appealing to me. I didn’t enjoy wandering around all day on muddy, cold, wet plains and woods, I hated wearing green and brown makeup (or camouflage, as it’s called in more manly terms), didn’t enjoy constantly cleaning things, shaving, having to cut my hair etc. The uniform was uncomfortable and there was too much of it and it had to be far too neat and pressed all the time for my liking. I also didn’t enjoy being shouted at by people who I suspected to be only 3 or 4 IQ points above a medium-sized radish. This latter became a major point of irritation the longer I served.

I did meet some fantastic people at college and through the magic of Facebook and the internet, I’m in touch with quite a few of them again. I also really enjoyed the trade side of things. Throughout my Army career, I always enjoyed my “job”. Working with and fixing firearms and optimizing management protocols etc. really appealed to me creatively and in terms of job satisfaction. I think that was a pretty good Armourer and worked as a Gunsmith in Canada for a while once I left the Army.

Once my training was finished I served a relatively enjoyable stint in Colchester where I mainly played Regimental Rugby and grew up a lot. I then went to London and met one of the best friends I had in my Army days. Meeting Frankie changed my life in a great many ways, as without that connection, I wouldn’t have met my future wife, would likely never have moved to Canada and would not be in the position I am in life. Shortly after being posted to London, I served my second active tour of duty in Northern Ireland. I hated both six month tours.

Throughout these first 6 or 7 years of my career, I became increasingly aware that this wasn’t something I could, or wanted to, do for a full 22 years. The thought of going to the desert for six months, somewhat regularly, didn’t appeal to me at all.

My last posting in the Army, in Germany, was a catalyst for me in that it really drove home that I didn’t particularly want to do this any more. It’s also worth noting that one individual was in large part responsible for my dislike of this last posting, but I won’t go into that here. It also, unfortunately, meant that I left the Army on a low rather than a high point. Juxtaposed against this discontent though was my enjoyment of the people I worked with in Germany and starting a serious relationship with my future wife and love of my life.

When I consider my entire career, I’m very proud of the work I did. I believe that I was always diligent, creative, and thorough. I’m proud of the relationships I formed, some of which have endured. I’m proud of having given my best to my friends and colleagues. I’m proud of having stuck out something that people though I couldn’t do. Try as I may though, I’m not proud of having “served my country”. This may be entirely selfish, but the pride I take from my military career come from personal achievements. I was never doing it for anyone else and I genuinely question the supposition that all soldiers are selfless individuals. I met too many to know that this isn’t the case.

I was never put in a position where I had to save someone. I was never put in a position where I had to shoot at anyone. I was never put in a position where I had to make a selfless choice. I was never put in a position where I had to act heroically. So to me, I don’t think I have any right to feel proud of having “served my country”. Given the choice of going to Northern Ireland or staying home, I would have stayed home. Every time. If I had to throw myself on a grenade, I can’t say with any certainty that I would have done it. I can’t say that I wouldn’t, but I can’t say that I would. I think this is why I can’t muster that feeling of pride that other people have (or say they have). I have more self-doubt about my motivations and “bravery”. I was also never fighting “for Queen and Country” (the Royal family could take a long walk off a short pier for all I care) but rather found the Army relatively easy and (for the first few years) not overly objectionable job.

In summary, I don’t consider myself any sort of hero simply for going where I was told to go and doing the job I was paid (albeit pitifully) to do having been fully aware of the potential risks when I signed my contract to do that job. I also don’t have too much faith in the majority of the wars that governments are sacrificing lives to fight. So, I can’t muster any pride from simply having been a soldier. That’s not to say that other people shouldn’t or don’t, I just don’t and don’t really understand why a lot of people do.