A vibrant red coat adorned with nine gleaming buttons hangs neatly beside each doorway throughout the halls of the Royal Hospital Chelsea.

Many of the rooms feature personal touches on their exterior. One door displays a quirky sign that states: “No singing, no dancing, no swearing – this is a respectable establishment.” While the intentions behind these rules are clear, they are frequently overlooked.

Currently, there are three hundred retired British soldiers residing here, commonly referred to as the Chelsea Pensioners.

Their ages range from 66 to 103, with particular admiration shown by the younger residents for those who served during World War Two.

As we stroll through the grounds, impeccably dressed pensioners greet us with a courteous “good morning.”

The discipline cultivated during their military careers remains evident in their retirement, as does the spirit of camaraderie — fostered by an informal buddy system that pairs the oldest residents with the youngest.

Jo Molendo, who oversees the welfare of the residents, remarks: “A member might have served decades apart from another, but the connection forged through their regimental ties is incredibly strong, ensuring they’ll support a fellow veteran from that regiment regardless of the circumstances.”

When John Morris, the oldest Chelsea Pensioner currently at 103 years of age, arrives punctually for his interview, he is jovially assisted by 73-year-old Charlie.

“I call myself ‘Cat’ Morris because I fancied I had nine lives,” he shares.

His first life may have been spent in the Anti-Aircraft Battery during the Blitz of London. He enlisted as a teenager, just 17 years old, when World War Two erupted.

“I participated in the Battle of Britain, and then the Blitz shifted to other locations like Weston-super-Mare, which suffered severe bombings. I distinctly recall helping to recover bodies from the devastated homes,” he says.

After transferring to the Essex Regiment, John was deployed to Algiers.

“They had me perched atop a flat-roofed building, tasked with firing at any attackers attempting to bomb us. It was an incredibly risky job,” he admits.

John faced hospitalization due to hepatitis before finding himself in the midst of the catastrophic eruption of Mount Vesuvius in March 1944, after which he volunteered for the Raiding Support Regiment, part of the Special Air Service (SAS).

“When I enlisted in the Special Forces, I truly doubted I would make it back alive. Engaging in such operations makes you acutely aware that you’re constantly flirting with death. Yet, in my youth and naivety, I volunteered for everything I could,” he recalls.

Though he emerged from the war relatively unharmed, he mourns the many others who were not as fortunate.

On VE Day, we reflect on these World War Two veterans and their remarkable experiences. In the hospital courtyard, a group of younger Chelsea Pensioners speaks of them with deep respect.

“The friends they lost, and everything they witnessed, commands respect and empathy,” remarks Denise Williams, the youngest pensioner at 66.

Bill Horsburgh, aged 84, adds: “We must honor and admire what they accomplished, especially the men and women who never returned. They are the true heroes.”

Weeks before the conflict concluded, Brian Howarth, now 99, parachuted over the Rhine into Germany.

“It was a harrowing drop – with aircraft going down in flames and many lives lost – I believe we sustained 20% casualties,” he recalls.

Having survived the initial advances, he was injured just days later. “I felt this impact. A sudden jolt in my stomach, and I knew I had been hit,” he explains.

The soldier alongside him was shot in the chest and died.

Brian was evacuated via an ambulance plane back to England and treated at Nottingham General Hospital.

“I received penicillin. At the time, it was not available to civilians — it had just been introduced — but it was permitted for military personnel, and I believe it saved my life.”

Thus, he found himself in the hospital on VE Day, lying in a ward with windows behind each bed.

“The nurses came around and gave us mirrors to hold above our heads so we could glimpse the celebrations below. People were dancing and reveling in the moment.”

As 85-year-old Tony Judge reflects, the victory in the war was a collective effort.

“My mother, at just 14, served on a searchlight crew right here in London,” the Chelsea Pensioner shares. “Everyone was called to contribute in some way — and they did.”