The Kill Chain Barrier: a helpful warning sign that re-directs you down a more rewarding path with your kind of people

Read more at theveterananthropologist.com.au | 15 April 2026

“I think you’re a murderer,” she said over the brim of her extra-hot skim latte.

“Why’s that?” I spluttered, wiping regurgitated orange pulp off everything within the spray zone.

“Because of what you did in Defence.”

If the comment had come from a stranger, I would’ve asked:

Have you served?
Has anyone in your family ever served?
No, then how did you come to such a dramastic* opinion?

Because, sadly, I’ve had the murderer conversation before. Most people who bring it up have a moral objection to military service, which is why at 1RTU—the Royal Australian Air Force’s recruitment training unit at RAAF Base Wagga—one of the first things you’re told is:

“Welcome to Defence, you’re now a member of the kill chain.”

It was a palpable shock that I still recall like it was yesterday.

Whether you’re in admin, logistics, medical, aircrew, or any of the other Defence jobs, you’re officially numbered as a cog in the machine and told your work will directly or indirectly contribute to the defence of Australia and her interests, including the lawful killing of her enemies. Far from a pre-battle war cry after a rousing speech that moves priests to pick up a sword, the statement is made to brush aside false preconceptions and give those with a moral objection an opportunity to bow out early.

You’d be surprised how many people join Defence, start their job, then realise it conflicts with their conscience.

So, the murderer statement is understandable.

… Generally.

But not in this instance.

The accuser just happened to be one of my closest civvie friends, whose partner is still in Defence.

“What about your partner? Is he a murderer, too?” It was an important point to clarify. Did she mean me specifically, or all Defence members, current and former?

“No. Just you.”

Hooooow excellent.

“I have nightmares you use your intelligence skills to break into my home and kill me.”

As one of my closest friends, she knew that across my ten years as an intelligence analyst, specialising in targeting and weaponeering, I was directly involved in the kill chain.

“So, you obviously haven’t found me in the cupboard, then?” I laughed.

She didn’t.

(We’re not friends anymore).

Her comments had a specific purpose—they were said to discredit me. They erased our history as if it never existed, all sentiment and understanding gone, and the door closed forever on our relationship.

“Have a wonderful day!” She farewelled. Her fake brightness raised goosebumps on my arms. “I’ll let you know when I’m back in town next,” she lied.

“Sure,” I replied while mentally noting to check the cupboard that night.

My service had been weaponised against me.

Or had I weaponised my service against her?

On that day when I was told I was part of the kill chain, I didn’t know what it really meant. I learned by doing my job. What I didn’t realise, or perhaps misunderstood, forgot, or never received warning of, was that it extended to relationships outside of the ADF’s policies. As a veteran navigating the military-civilian gap, I found myself once again in limbo valley. But this time, I’d experienced the joy of making it to the other side before being evicted with a live grenade.

What do I have to do to be accepted? The question tumbled around my brain, looking for a foothold to step up and survey the landscape. But I couldn’t see the answer through all the competing arguments that bubbled up around me.

Be accepted? You idiot. Crazy people are NOT your people.

Maybe it’s time to lie about your service… what if you’re still a hairdresser?

Or—hear me out—you move on. There’s more than one door.

Silence! My mega-introvert whispered with the force of a librarian on a power-trip. We bunker down, retract from the world, read more and recover in time.

My librarian won. Like she always does.

Prior to the murderer chat, I was writing publicly three times a week. For months. In one awkward fifty-seven-minute psycho-speech, my ex-friend scared the words out of me. What if everyone thought I was a murderer and she was just the messenger? Do I need to write under a pseudonym? Not at all? Become a bricklayer?

It’s been almost nine-months to the day since our murder chat triggered an existential crisis.

In that time, I’ve conceived, birthed and nursed The Veteran Anthropologist—this new newsletter—to share and decode veteran life. (The experience also inspired a new book with a murder mystery plot 😈—I wonder which friend did it?).

It felt right to start by sharing this experience with you, because it killed off the old and inspired the new, while also representing a significant issue other veterans face: the kill chain barrier, our first decoded phenomenon.

The kill chain barrier is the impenetrable divide between veterans and civvies who just don’t get military service. They could be friends, family, strangers, or your next-door neighbour named Gus. The harder we try to break through the door, the more they barricade and the more we feel like the person we’ve been accused of.

And that’s okay.

Sometimes it’s about recognising not everyone is our people. We don’t need universal acceptance, nor do we need to prove them wrong. There’s nothing to prove or gain by putting up with their delusion. Instead of forcing challenging concepts on the narrow-minded, I encourage you to rise above it. You can’t change them, but, to paraphrase Viktor Frankl, you can choose your response—let it go and move on.

It’ll feel bigger than Everest and just as impassable as you wrestle with your self-worth. Remember, you’ve done hard things before and survived them. This is no different. Don’t entertain any murdery notion, including doubt that you’re a good person. Instead, invest your time and energy in finding the right people.

The first step is empathy—pity any person who hides from reality.

Next, do the work. Use your resources: mental health support, existing groups, and access to new networks. You’re looking for new connections that reinforce your identity and share common interests. It could be getting to know the regulars at your favourite café, going to a networking event for writers, or stumbling on a dog meetup with high standards and great attitudes. (These worked for me). You know you’ve made it when it leads to more doors than you have time to explore. You’ll feel nervous, like you might puke. But you’ll show up for yourself and step into the unknown despite the discomfort it creates. This is what growth feels like. Welcome to the club, my friend.

Finally—look back and celebrate, then share how you did it. All those stuck below, pushing against a door that won’t open, need your help. This is how we give back.

If procrastination is winning, do one thing each day that moves you forward. If momentum doesn’t get you going, your attitude soon will. I reached a point where I said to a mentor, “I’m done waiting to become the person I hoped to be… I’m publishing tonight.”

And here we are.

The kill chain barrier is there for a reason. Defence needs it to recruit the right people to defend Australia and her peoples. A small portion of civilians need it to protect their naivety. But you get to use it as a warning sign to avoid unnecessary conflict, be re-directed down a more rewarding path, and find your people.

Who cares if some numpty thinks you’re a murderer.

Leap frog them. You’ve got your people to find.

Because service never dies.

P.S. Read deeper with these book recommendations: Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, Ryan Holiday’s The Obstacle is the Way, and Adam Grant’s Hidden Potential.

*Dramastic = drama + spastic. A term created by an aircrew member known as “Mum” to describe and call out stupid-crazy ideas, people and outcomes.