Unlike most people my age, I have, in fact, held a rifle. Not only that, I’ve learnt how to strip it down and put it back together in 60 seconds. The reason? I was once a student in the RAF Reserves, marching in formation, completing adventure training, learning flight drills, discipline, and the sort of composure you can only really gain from being shouted at by a rotund man in a beret before 6am.
But that experience, valuable as it was, is still a far step from being willing to fight, kill, or die for your country. That’s a different kind of commitment altogether.
And yet – as Keir Starmer unveils the new defence review, which, among other recommendations, suggests military-style “gap years” to get Britain “war-ready” and to tackle recruitment shortfalls in the armed forces – it is a prospect that many may face – whether they like it or not.
As for me, would I sign up to defend Britain? My answer is yes – but on one condition: that it’s not just some of us who are expected to serve.
The state we are currently in is far from equal. Military service in the UK disproportionately appeals to, and is marketed toward, those from less privileged backgrounds who are struggling to find purpose – for those who see it as a ticket to training, income, or direction. Research from the Child Rights International Network speaks to this, finding that between 2013-2018, army recruitment of 16- and 17-year-olds in England was 57 per cent higher in the poorest fifth of constituencies than the richest fifth.
Add to that the recent proposals to enlist prisoners to ease overcrowding, and it’s hard not to associate service with punishment – there’s a quiet suggestion of it becoming a sentence for the disadvantaged, rather than a civic duty shared by all.
Should young people, particularly young men, prosper under the touch of a little agility and discipline? Honestly, yes. I think many would. The world’s gone a bit topsy-turvy, and real grit, resilience – even something as old-fashioned as honour – feels harder to come by these days. A universal national service model, military or civil, could give structure and purpose where it’s sorely lacking.
But, as much as I see the benefits in service, I can also empathise with my peers who flat-out reject the idea of defending a country they feel has neglected – and continues to punish – them. Between January and March 2025, there were 620,000 young people aged 16 to 24 who were unemployed, per the ONS. So, too, are Gen Z still recovering from the impact of Covid – and that’s before we even get to the cost of living crisis, rentflation and the increasingly impossible prospect of property ownership.
Still, if implemented correctly – and fairly – military service may actually be a good thing for them, offering a steady income, life skills and a sense of purpose.
It’s also important to note that many countries around the world have successfully introduced conscription models over the years – as did Britain during the First World War.
In Switzerland, for example, conscription isn’t controversial, but compulsory – even to this day. Every Swiss male citizen is required to undergo 18 to 21 weeks of basic military training around the age of 18, followed by mandatory reservist service, which includes returning for three-week refresher courses every year for the next decade.
It’s an intense commitment, but what it creates is a nation where military preparedness is normalised – not politicised. Young people leave with a sense of discipline, shared national identity, and, crucially, the knowledge that in times of crisis, they are ready to defend their country. There’s no scramble to fill the ranks and no over-reliance on one socioeconomic group, because the responsibility is shared. Have the Swiss got it right? In a world as unstable as ours, their model begins to look less like a relic and more like foresight.
I got my taste of military discipline at school, where we were required to do a year of CCF – the Combined Cadet Force – every Wednesday afternoon. What I remember most wasn’t the boat days or the camping under a sheet, but the male teachers barking orders at 13-year-old girls as we stood shivering through gun drills and formation practice. At the time, it felt absurd – even intimidating. But looking back, it taught me something I didn’t expect: how to “man up”, as it were; to dig in, stay calm, and carry on.
Conscription is nothing new. But whether it still has a place in modern Britain is the question we now have to ask. And if you think it's archaic, just ask yourself this: if we were to go to war tomorrow, would we be prepared?
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