Every Remembrance Day, the anti-poppy naysayers pop up to criticise those who commemorate our war dead. As a former soldier, you might think you can guess my view on these people. But, in fact, I do have some sympathy with those who are uncomfortable about the way we mark 11 November.
Some years ago, shortly after leaving the army, I happened to be on Whitehall as the remembrance ceremonies were in full swing. I tried to watch but couldn’t: memories of the death and destruction I encountered in Iraq and Afghanistan flashed back. The smart uniforms and neat drills of those gathered at the Cenotaph struck me as a disingenuous commemoration that belied the bloodshed, waste and messy reality of what I had seen on the frontline.
During subsequent Novembers, whenever I encountered poppy sellers — especially if they were military men or women — I was torn between engaging in a spot of banter or turning my back.
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