Drone warfare revolutionized the nature of combat, enabling militaries to strike at targets with laser precision from thousands of miles away. But whereas these drones keep pilots out of harm’s way, they’ve stealthily built a new type of battlefield—one that exists inside the heads of the individuals who operate them. Far from the typical stereotype of pilots carelessly flying drones as if they’re playing a video game, the reality is far more complicated. It’s one in which individuals sit in sterile, quiet rooms, a thousand miles removed from harm, but come away severely wounded.
Within a drone operating center, the crew normally consists of a pilot, a sensor operator, and an intelligence analyst. The setting is clean, secure, and worlds away from the dust, heat, and disorder of conventional war zones. But what goes on their screens is hardly everyday. These crews tend to view the same individual or location for days—sometimes weeks—before an order is given to destroy it. They monitor movement, witness routines, see families spend time with loved ones, and then, with a command, destroy. Physically, they’re safe. But emotionally and psychologically, they are surrounded by violence, witnessing it play out in slow motion and high definition.
Unlike fighter pilots who get their adrenaline and danger right up close, drone operatives don’t experience that same bodily peril or intense camaraderie. They exit their safe bases after long shifts and head home, usually fading into normal life without anyone around them having any idea what they just did, or what they witnessed. They can’t speak openly about it, even with their immediate family, because most of what they do is classified. That silence is a burden, and it begins to build over time.
The psychological pressure can be extreme. Operators aren’t merely observing fuzzy images from afar; they’re observing color, real-time images—often of individuals dying as a direct result of their actions. They can get to know a target’s life, witnessing them laugh, pray, or play with their children. That feeling of familiarity gives it a personal touch, and when the strike order arrives, it doesn’t feel abstract. Indeed, some former operators attest that it packs a harder punch compared to what conventional pilots experience. As Neal Scheuneman, a retired Air Force sensor operator, once described it, viewing from a screen doesn’t numb the experience—it makes it more acute.
There is accumulating evidence that drone crew members suffer severe mental health problems. Studies indicate that nearly half of weaponized drone pilots suffer psychological symptoms severe enough to impact their work or personal lives. They are sad, guilty, anxious, have difficulty sleeping, and are emotionally exhausted. Approximately 8% of operators are formally diagnosed with a mental illness, such as depression or an adjustment disorder, within two years of beginning this work. Burnout is common. The constant schedule—alternating shifts, 24/7 deployments, and extended hours—only exacerbates it.
One of the hardest challenges is what’s referred to as moral injury. That’s when someone does something, or witnesses something, that conflicts with their sense of morality. When drone operations fail or civilians get injured, operators must bear the brunt. Rules of engagement are not always well-defined, and the intelligence is not always flawless.
This uncertainty gives rise to intense feelings of guilt and religious turmoil. Captain Kevin Larson was a highly awarded drone pilot who flew hundreds of missions, but he eventually ended his life. His case is pathetic. According to his family, he grappled with the consequences of missions in which civilians were killed, d—and the insufficient support he could draw on.
Drone operators weren’t officially considered combat troops until quite recently. That is, they didn’t receive the same downtime, counseling, or mental health evaluations as deployed soldiers. Many didn’t receive medals or awards that would legitimize their experience. And even today, there’s still a powerful stigma associated with seeking help. There are some units beginning to insert chaplains or therapists into drone squadrons, but most operators are not willing to open up. They are afraid of appearing weak or getting into trouble at work.
Individuals manage in their manner. Some use booze or drugs to anesthetize the strain. Others go to therapy or speak with other veterans who get it. There is interest in using alternative therapies such as psychedelic-assisted therapy, particularly in combat veterans with entrenched trauma or chronic guilt. But for too long, without near-universal recognition that drone operators are carrying significant psychological burdens, far too many slip away to handle their trauma in solitude.
As drone operations become a standard feature of military policy, the emotional and moral health of the individuals responsible for conducting them must no longer take a backseat. These are not computers that make the call—they’re human beings. And though their labor is at a distance, the impact they experience is all too real.
Supporting their mental well-being isn’t just the right thing to do—it’s necessary for helping them continue to do their work with clarity, conscience, and care. Because even as the technology gets more sophisticated, the person behind the screen remains at war.