The State Must Stand by Those Who Served

By General Sir Nick Parker*

The British government’s new UK–Ireland Joint Framework on Legacy and Reconciliation, announced on 19th September, risks betraying the very people who upheld peace in Northern Ireland. By reopening inquests into decades-old incidents from the Troubles, it exposes veterans to renewed legal jeopardy while the politicians who authorised those operations remain shielded. Those who served in good faith deserve protection from retrospective legal proceedings—not the uncertainty this latest policy invites.

For nearly three decades since the Good Friday Agreement, our leaders have struggled to draw a line under the conflict. The Agreement was an extraordinary achievement, but it was built on deliberate ambiguity. That ambiguity allowed opposing communities to commit to the same future while holding different visions of it. It made peace possible, yet it left open wounds that still shape our politics today. Every time the balance shifts—through political crisis, victims’ demands, or cross-border disputes—the old fault lines reopen.

The latest framework is a product of that unresolved tension. It seeks to address the past through joint cooperation with Dublin and provide six veteran protections, promising closure for victims and accountability for wrongdoers. Yet it misunderstands the problem. No amount of procedural innovation can reconcile a state’s duty to the rule of law with its parallel duty to those who served it faithfully in good conscience. Re-litigating history half a century later serves neither justice nor peace.

I speak with the perspective of someone who served on Operation Banner—first as a young officer, later as a battalion commander, and finally as the last General Officer Commanding Northern Ireland. I saw the conflict at every level: the patrol on a hostile street corner, the tense operational brief, the careful line between military necessity and political restraint.

My first tour, in West Belfast in 1974, was quiet. Even so, women and children banged dustbin lids and spat at us as we passed, warning others of our approach. We were trained not to react; the real threat was the unseen sniper. Trying to engage with the locals was impossible; much of our time was spent “ballooning” — bobbing up and down to avoid presenting an easy target. Every soldier carried what was known as the Yellow Card — a small laminated sheet spelling out, in unambiguous language, when we could open fire. It reminded us daily that we were soldiers operating under policing rules, permitted to use lethal force only as a last resort and only to save life. We were directed to behave like policemen but enforce order without consent.

I was 19 years old, I had enlisted under rules written for a different kind of war, and had been hastily retrained to operate under the constraints of the Yellow Card. It demanded extraordinary discipline and faith—in our commanders, in our government, and in the state whose authority we represented.

That was fifty-one years ago — exceeding the forty-year span between the WW1 Battle of the Somme and the Suez Crisis. My Company Commander and my Commanding Officer are both gone. If I were summoned before a coroner’s court today, there would be no one left to speak for me, no one to share responsibility for decisions made under pressure in the fog of violence. And no minister of the day, who ordered the Army into Northern Ireland, would stand beside me to defend those choices. That is the reality of legacy: individuals are left exposed while institutions move on.

Those who served did their duty in circumstances not of their own making. They acted within a chain of command and under the lawful authority of the Crown. Their moral contract with the state is simple: those prepared to risk their lives on its behalf should be able to rely on that same state to protect them when they are vulnerable. During Operation Banner, that trust sustained us. Today, that trust is being eroded.

The Joint Framework fails on three counts.

First, it abdicates sovereign responsibility by sharing ownership of the process with the Irish Government, blurring lines of accountability.

Second, it places unrealistic emphasis on victims, inviting expectations of closure that can never be fully met so long after the events.

Third, it re-exposes veterans to inquests despite pledges that legal proceedings would not be reopened. Its six new protections do nothing to alter that fact.

These flaws are not merely technical. They strike at the bond between those who serve and the government they serve under. A society that becomes trapped in endless retrospective litigation paralyses its own ability to act decisively in the future. States must be accountable—but accountability cannot mean leaving soldiers to face history alone.

Peace in Northern Ireland was built on compromise, not on the perpetual re-litigation of the past. Leadership today demands the courage to draw a clear line: to acknowledge genuine wrongs where they occurred, while defending those who acted lawfully in good faith. If the government cannot uphold its side of that contract, it weakens not only the trust that binds the armed forces but the moral authority of the state itself. Only by protecting the integrity of those who served can we safeguard the stability that their service helped secure.

*General Sir Nick Parker was commander-in-chief, land forces, 2010-12