While I was researching my Ph.D. on Lithuania’s new independence, in the early 1990s, I also wrote security assessments on Eastern Europe for Jane’s, the renowned defence publishers, and got a job at the Centre for European Reform think tank, which needed a defence analyst. I moved into advising defence companies, and set up my own firm in 2004.
I advise defence, security, and nuclear companies who supply the UK Ministry of Defence or the US Department of Defense. The advice ranges from big-picture strategic concepts or updates on geopolitics to guiding companies through procurement competitions. If my clients need to ask the question “What does this mean for me?” after an election or a national defence review, that’s when they call.
My favourite job to date was helping the American company Force Protection supply protected vehicles to the Ministry of Defence. It’s heartening to meet people who are alive today because they were in one of our vehicles that saved them in an explosion.
GEL is a radiochemistry laboratory in Charleston which analyses samples from potentially radioactive sites. I represent them in the UK because we’re involved in the work to decommission the UK’s ageing nuclear power stations. It’s essential to know what nuclear waste is actually composed of, and how long it will remain toxic, so it can be disposed of, or stored safely.
My newest role is national vice-chair of the SSAFA, the armed-forces charity, which will be 140 years old in February. It supports serving and former soldiers, sailors, and aircrew and their families. No one who’s served our country should ever have to battle alone. I’ve fund-raised for them for 20 years, and was appointed a trustee in 2022. I became vice-chair in October. It’s the greatest privilege of my life, and it’s what now gives me purpose.
Defence is essential. That doesn’t mean I advocate the indiscriminate use of force. Nations need strong defence capabilities, both for themselves and for their allies. We don’t live in a utopia, and not all world leaders share the same moral values or exhibit the same behaviours. Just look at recent events.
History has taught us what happens to countries and their people that don’t have strong defence capabilities, but, because that hasn’t directly affected the UK for centuries, some here have grown complacent — unlike people in Eastern Europe, who are well aware of the potential threats they face, and what life’s like under enemy occupation.
Some banks now aren’t giving bank accounts to small defence companies because they don’t feel they’re ethical; yet the Government wants a thriving tech and aerospace sector, and to encourage small businesses.
The mood music from the outgoing Archbishop of Canterbury and other clergy has been rather hostile, whereas you have fabulous clerics who serve on the front lines. These padres are very valued by the Forces, because they offer not just Christian teaching, but also counsel and friendship in the shared situation.
Pacifism’s a noble ideal, and we’re fortunate to live in a country where people can freely express their beliefs. But it’s easier for people to be pacifists when they are protected by our armed forces. And it should always be remembered that we’re privileged to live in a country where people serve in our armed forces voluntarily. Not all people have that luxury.
I’m in awe of those who serve in the armed forces. My late husband [Sir Robert Walmsley] was a submariner in the Royal Navy. I certainly couldn’t have done that: it takes a very special person.
In our country, and in those of our closest allies, people join the armed forces to serve, not to fight or to kill. To me, serving is a vocation, as much as being a teacher, a priest, or a nurse, and, in the process of serving, they protect our freedoms and risk paying the ultimate price for us.
Committing serving personnel to the battlefield should be the last resort of governments. What works best is effective, credible deterrence, which convinces potential adversaries that their attack would be met with comprehensive, resolute force.
Sadly, there are individuals and regimes in this world who choose to threaten our and others’ freedoms and values, and they often use force to do that. But warfare isn’t always just about traditional militaries battling on land, at sea, or in the air, or in space. It’s not always for territorial gain or regime change. Sometimes it’s for economic supremacy or to reinforce a regime’s own position.
Attacks on other countries can, as we’ve recently seen, take the form of sabotage, targeting critical national infrastructure, exerting influence, fomenting unrest, or manipulating events via social media.
I had a blessed childhood. My parents were Second World War refugees: my father from Germany, and my mother from Lithuania. They met at university in the US, and it was my good fortune to be born in London. My parents were keen for me to have what they didn’t have: a settled life here in the UK. London’s always been home.
In 1995, I broke my back in a car crash, which means that I’m often in pain. I try not to let that interfere with life, although my osteopath is on speed-dial. I travel a lot, mostly to the US. I’m trying to adapt to the utter ghastliness of widowhood [Sir Robert died suddenly in Cape Cod in August 2022], still recovering from the trauma of the inquest, finally starting to grieve. I’m also learning how to balance client work with my new charity activities.
One day I might be briefing a client, chairing a conference, or standing in a muddy field testing some new piece of equipment, and the next I could be meeting veterans in Wormwood Scrubs, or visiting SSAFA’s women’s refuge.
I make the most of music and culture available wherever I am, from Yo-Yo Ma to Taylor Swift. My New Year’s resolution is to find more time to play my cello. I played the harpsichord, piano, flute, and guitar at school, but I found this cello in a charity shop when I was 32, and it speaks to me. Playing it is like hugging it. Taking up an instrument as an adult is very different — no exams — but it’s frustrating because now I know what it’s meant to sound like, but, funnily enough, it doesn’t sound like that. I’m quite interested in percussion, bashing something. Timpani would be quite fun, but maybe the neighbours wouldn’t like that.
I don’t know if I’ve truly experienced God, but I can’t remember a time in childhood without bedtime prayers with my father, or saying grace before dinner.
God was important to my family. My mother, like most Lithuanians, was devoutly Roman Catholic. My father’s roots were Ashkenazy Jewish, but he was raised as a German Lutheran. Coming to the UK, we attended our local church, St John’s, Hyde Park, for the big festivals; and I went to a C of E school, and when I was 20 I chose to be baptised at St John’s.
I prefer the Anglo-Catholic end of the spectrum, and it doesn’t get any better than St Mary’s, Bourne Street: perfect liturgy, ritual, and sublime music. My faith’s rocky following the recent deaths of my parents and my husband. I derive comfort from the language, poetry, ritual, and music; so I’ll listen online to mass from St Mary’s, or maybe go to St John’s, which feels like coming home after five decades of family memories.
It’s regrettable that pacifism doesn’t work in real life, but many of the values underpinning Christianity, such as courage, loyalty, integrity, commitment, justice, perseverance, and respect are solid foundations for policy-making.
I do my best to work and live in accordance with these values. I operate only within fairly narrow parameters, only with certain clients, from certain countries, who make certain products or provide certain services and who abide by similar laws as we have here.
I had my Christmas activity early: the annual SSAFA carol concert at the Guards’ Chapel. It was broadcast worldwide on the armed forces’ network, BFBS, on Christmas Eve; so I drew the curtains, lit some candles, and tuned in. I joined some kind, new friends in the nearest village for Christmas Day, alongside other local waifs and strays, but Christmas celebrations now feel meaningless to me. I tend to hide in a favourite remote spot to remember the wonderful times that my husband and I shared there over 20 years.
Betrayal, cruelty, toxicity, abuse make me angry.
I haven’t felt properly happy since my husband died, but occasionally I’m transported by fine music — particularly Bach, Mozart, Brahms, Elgar — or being somewhere with treasured memories. Momentarily, I forget the pain and horrors of the last two years. Sitting on a favourite rock looking out over a loch or an ocean; the shape of familiar hills; watching a hawk soaring in the thermals; walking along a special beach; a glorious sunset. Nature soothes and uplifts me. Good food and wine also help.
I love the call of an oystercatcher as it skims over the water; the sound of waves on the shore.
I’m buoyed by how good some people can be. I’ve been touched by acts of kindness, particularly from those I didn’t know well or at all before my husband died. There seems to be an essential goodness underpinning humanity which manifests itself in times of crisis or despair. That has to bode well for the future.
I get comfort from the beautiful language and poetry of the mass in Latin or English, and other prayers and responses. “Lighten our darkness . . .” is a favourite collect, but I can no longer pray, myself. I glibly say that God and I have had a falling out, but that’s probably not mutual. I like this meme: “I’m fed up with being sent challenges that don’t kill me but make me stronger.” Yes, I’m finding reserves of strength that I didn’t know I had — but I could do without it.
If I couldn’t be reunited with my husband, I’d choose to be locked in a church with Bach. I’d be entertained, uplifted, soothed. It would be an opportunity to improve my rusty German, and maybe even my rustier cello-playing.
Dr Alex Walmsley was talking to Terence Handley MacMath.