Broken Before, Broken After: Rethinking Psychological Screening in the UK Armed Forces

The United Kingdom has long prided itself on its armed forces, institutions that have stood as symbols of national resilience, sacrifice, and unity. Generations of men and women have passed through the gates of barracks and bases, pledging service to the nation in exchange for belonging, structure, and identity. Yet beneath the uniform, and beneath the rhetoric of duty, lie individual stories that often carry invisible scars. Many recruits who enter the military bring with them heavy burdens from their past, burdens of abuse, neglect, deprivation, and instability, commonly grouped under the term adverse childhood experiences. Others may enter service without such histories, only to be deeply scarred by the realities of combat, operational stress, or institutional pressures. Still others experience a devastating combination of both, carrying childhood trauma into military life, having it magnified by the violence or intensity of service, and then being released into civilian society without the care they urgently need. This cycle of brokenness, trauma before service, trauma during service, and abandonment after service, is one of the most pressing issues facing contemporary Britain. Despite public gestures of respect toward veterans, and an increasing awareness of mental health more broadly, the truth is that far too many service personnel are failed. They are failed in recruitment, where psychological histories are poorly understood. They are failed in service, where mental strain is often dismissed as weakness. And they are failed in transition, where the promises of support are rarely matched by adequate provision. The question then arises: what if, alongside the physical tests that determine whether someone can carry a weapon, climb a wall, or march a mile, there were psychological screenings at both entry and exit? Such an approach could change not only individual lives but the moral fabric of the nation’s relationship to its defenders. To appreciate the case for such screening, it is essential first to understand the nature of adverse childhood experiences (ACEs). These encompass a wide range of early life traumas, such as physical, emotional, or sexual abuse; neglect; domestic violence; parental substance misuse; parental mental illness; or family instability such as divorce or imprisonment. The research in psychology and psychiatry is clear: individuals who experience multiple ACEs are at heightened risk of poor life outcomes, including mental illness, substance abuse, homelessness, and difficulties with interpersonal relationships. These individuals are often in search of belonging, identity, and stability, things the military, at least on the surface, seems uniquely equipped to provide. The rigid routines, clear hierarchies, and sense of purpose can feel like a sanctuary for someone whose childhood was chaotic and unsafe. The camaraderie, the bonds of “brotherhood” or “sisterhood,” offer the semblance of family that may have been absent. However, the very same qualities that attract individuals with ACEs can also amplify their vulnerabilities. The culture of stoicism and toughness, the suppression of emotional expression, and the demand for conformity can all interact with unresolved trauma in dangerous ways. A soldier who has learned to dissociate in childhood may excel in the short term, appearing highly disciplined, yet later unravel under pressure. Another may become hypervigilant, a trait valuable in combat but destructive in peacetime relationships. Still another may fall into cycles of aggression, alcohol abuse, or self-destructive behaviour. Without recognition of these dynamics, the military inadvertently recruits individuals whose past wounds are both masked and magnified by the institution itself. At the same time, those who enter service without significant childhood trauma are not immune. Combat is one of the most intense psychological environments a human can endure. Witnessing death, killing others, surviving explosions, or living in constant threat creates a fertile ground for post-traumatic stress disorder. But even outside of direct combat, modern military service presents risks: long deployments away from family, moral injury when actions contradict personal values, institutional bullying, or exposure to sexual harassment and assault. The war may be “out there,” but trauma is also in the barracks, in the routines, in the dislocations of service life. The tragedy deepens when one considers what happens at the point of discharge. Veterans are often lauded in speeches, applauded at public ceremonies, or commemorated on remembrance days. Yet in everyday life many slip into obscurity, struggling with unemployment, mental illness, addiction, or homelessness. For those with childhood trauma, military service was supposed to be an escape, but it often ends with a cruel return to instability. For those traumatised by war, the transition to civilian life can feel like exile, with memories they cannot process and a society that does not understand. And for those who bear both burdens, the weight is unbearable. So why, despite decades of awareness about trauma, does the system continue to fail? One answer lies in cultural attitudes. The military has historically valorised resilience, toughness, and silence. To admit psychological distress has been equated with weakness or failure, both to the individual and to the unit. Screening recruits for ACEs might raise fears that fewer would be deemed “fit to serve.” Screening at exit might expose the sheer scale of unaddressed suffering, creating a moral and financial responsibility that the government is reluctant to bear. There is also the question of resources: mental health provision in the NHS is already stretched, and specialist veteran services are few and far between. The political rhetoric of “supporting our troops” often evaporates when it comes to funding therapy, rehabilitation, or long-term care. Yet the argument for psychological screening is not merely compassionate but practical. From a military perspective, knowing the psychological profile of recruits is essential for operational readiness. A soldier with untreated trauma is not only at risk of personal collapse but may also endanger comrades. Early identification could allow for interventions, whether that be therapeutic support, tailored assignments, or, in some cases, advising against enlistment altogether. At exit, screening could act as a safety net, catching those who would otherwise fall into crisis. Just as soldiers return equipment and undergo medical checks, so too should they have their psychological health assessed, with referrals made proactively rather than reactively. Implementing such screenings would require sensitivity. The purpose must not be to exclude or stigmatise but to support and prepare. A recruit who reveals a history of childhood abuse should not automatically be barred but should enter service with awareness and access to resources. An exiting soldier who shows signs of PTSD should not be discharged with a leaflet and a phone number but should be linked directly to a pathway of care. Screening should not be a bureaucratic box-ticking exercise but a meaningful dialogue between the individual and professionals trained in trauma. The challenge, of course, is cultural change. Military institutions are slow to adapt, and stigma around mental health remains powerful. Many service members fear that admitting vulnerability will harm their careers or reputations. To make screening work, there must be a shift in ethos: from a culture of silence to a culture of strength through honesty. Leaders must model openness, demonstrating that acknowledging trauma is not weakness but courage. Society at large must also change, recognising that supporting veterans is not an act of charity but a debt of justice. It is worth considering the deeper implications of such an approach. Screening at entry acknowledges that the military is not a neutral employer but one that shapes, and is shaped by, the psychological lives of its recruits. Screening at exit acknowledges that the debt to service personnel does not end with their contract but continues as long as their wounds endure. This reframes the relationship between the state and the soldier, moving away from a transactional logic of “serve and be forgotten” toward an ethic of care. There will be critics who argue that such measures are too costly, too invasive, or too impractical. Yet the cost of inaction is already visible: veterans sleeping rough on the streets of British cities, families torn apart by untreated PTSD, coroners’ reports of suicides linked to service. The economic cost of homelessness, addiction, and prison far outweighs the cost of preventative care. More importantly, the moral cost, the betrayal of those who served, is incalculable. To explore this issue further, it is worth imagining the life of a single soldier. Consider a young man raised in a home where violence and neglect were daily realities. Joining the army, he finds the structure he craved, the belonging he longed for. He excels, even thrives, until a deployment to Afghanistan exposes him to horrors he cannot process. Returning home, he begins to drink heavily, becomes estranged from his family, and eventually leaves the military without support. Within a few years, he is homeless, his medals tucked away in a box he no longer opens. Now imagine that same life, but with screening in place. At entry, his ACEs are identified, and he is offered counselling alongside his training. At exit, his PTSD is recognised, and he is connected directly to specialist care. The trajectory is different. The life is saved. Multiply that by thousands, and the case for reform becomes undeniable. What then would screening look like in practice? At entry, recruits could undergo structured psychological assessments alongside their physical tests. These would explore trauma histories, coping mechanisms, and current mental health. Confidentiality would be paramount, as would assurances that disclosure does not automatically mean exclusion. The aim would be to match support with need, not to punish honesty. At exit, a similar process would occur, involving interviews, self-report measures, and clinical evaluations. The findings would not vanish into paperwork but would trigger referrals to ongoing services, with follow-up to ensure continuity of care. None of this is revolutionary. Other high-stakes professions, such as aviation, already integrate psychological assessments. In civilian healthcare, trauma-informed practice is increasingly mainstream. The only difference is that the military has, until now, resisted acknowledging the extent of psychological injury. The United Kingdom owes its soldiers more than medals and ceremonies. It owes them recognition of the full human cost of service, including the ways that service intersects with prior vulnerabilities. It owes them systems that do not abandon them at their most fragile. It owes them lives beyond the uniform, lives in which they can be whole, connected, and healed. To continue the current cycle, where many join already wounded, are further wounded by service, and are then discarded, is to perpetuate a profound injustice. Psychological screening is not a panacea, but it is a vital step toward breaking that cycle. It affirms that those who serve are not expendable tools but human beings whose dignity must be protected before, during, and after their time in uniform. The title “Broken Before, Broken After” is not merely a rhetorical flourish. It captures the reality faced by too many veterans in Britain today. But it also implies that the breakage is not inevitable. With foresight, with courage, and with compassion, the cycle can be interrupted. The nation can choose to honour its soldiers not only in death but in life. The question is not whether it can afford to do so, but whether it can afford not to in these uncertain times.

Tony Wright CEO Forward Assist