The Parallel Four Book Three – Chapter Two: Mobilising for Kosovo | Real British Army Life Stories

Join The Parallel Four in Chapter Two: Mobilising for Kosovo — a true-to-life, behind-the-scenes look at British Army mobilisation at the turn of the millennium. Stephen, Vinka, Johan, and Marlin return for another unforgettable chapter of humour, heart, and hard graft as they prepare for deployment with 15(UK) PsyOps Group in early 2000.

From the chaos of Chilwell mobilisation — kit mountains, med-checks, and coffee-fuelled admin — to Christmas warmth in snowy Sweden, this episode captures the camaraderie, laughter, and grit of real service life. Expect classic Army humour, tales of bureaucracy gone mad, unforgettable characters, and heartfelt moments of family and friendship before the next mission begins.

If you love real military stories, British Army history, Cold War veterans’ humour, and true accounts of service and sacrifice, this story is for you. Perfect for fans of rugby, skiing, travel, and regimental life in Germany during the 70s, 80s, 90s, and 00s — told with authenticity and wit.

Subscribe for more chapters from The Parallel Four — a chronicle of friendship, love, war, adventure, and destiny.

Transcript

Chapter 2

“A week after that unforgettable night — still nursin’ faint memories and livers frayed like old bootlaces — the four of us, plus one other brave volunteer, found ourselves reportin’ to Chilwell, near Nottingham, for mobilisation to Kosovo. Sounded dramatic, didn’t it? Truth was, we wouldn’t be deployin’ till mid-January 2000. Bureaucracy moves slower than a hungover powder monkey.

Still, the upside was we got to spend Christmas in Sweden and New Year back home. Bit of nostalgia, that — like the old days, only with better whisky and joints that complained more than the RSM on inspection day.”

“It felt like coming full circle. Christmas in Sweden, with snow on the pines and candles in every window. New Year in England, surrounded by family, laughter, and too much food. Once, we had been young and careless. Now, older, perhaps wiser, but still together. And knowing that in January, we would go again. It was comforting — to pause, to breathe, before the work ahead.”

“Comfortin’ aye, but I’ll tell you — the whisky hit harder than it used to, and the hangovers lasted twice as long. We were seasoned soldiers, but clearly not seasoned drinkers anymore.”

“The mobilisation process? Bureaucratic purgatory. Forget smooth military efficiency — this was a logistical meat grinder. About a hundred reservists turned up on day one, lookin’ various shades of confused and over-caffeinated, clutchin’ mugs like lifelines. We were herded into groups of twenty-five, like school kids on a dodgy field trip. Thankfully, the five of us managed to stick together.

First stop: the Quartermaster’s Aladdin’s cave of unnecessary kit. We were issued a full Arctic wardrobe whether we needed it or not — socks thick enough to stand up on their own, cold weather boots built like tanks, thermal underwear, mittens, and enough Gore-Tex to clothe a small village. By the time we staggered out of there we were draggin’ kit bags the size of fridge-freezers, webbin’ flappin’ and bergens groanin’ under the strain of items we’d probably never use. Honestly, they could’ve thrown in a team of sled dogs and it wouldn’t have looked out of place. Waste of money? Absolutely. But no mobilisation’s complete without some poor sod askin’, ‘What the hell am I supposed to do with three pairs of snow gaiters?’”

“I remember laughing at Stephen, buried under his kit, muttering like a camel under too much load. The British Army loves tradition — and issuing unnecessary equipment is one of its favourites. Still, I folded my Gore-Tex neatly, packed my thermals carefully, and thought… perhaps, one day, we might need it. Even the snow gaiters.”

“While one poor mob got swallowed by the Quartermaster’s Aladdin’s cave, another unlucky bunch were marched off to the Medical Centre — quickly christened the Dream Crusher. Inside, a squad of suspiciously cheerful medics waited, armed with clipboards, rubber gloves, and enough booster jabs to tranquillise a horse.

They gave us the full works. Blood pressure, hearing tests, reflex checks, and a terrifyingly stern lecture about ingrown toenails. Then came the awkward conversations — the sort that involve latex gloves, a cough, and the silent prayer you’ll never lock eyes with that medic again at the Mess bar.

The staff were ruthless. Fail a test, and you were out the door quicker than you could say ‘honourable discharge.’ High blood pressure? Gone. Dodgy knees? Gone. Couldn’t touch your toes without wheezin’? Gone. One poor lad took one look at the injection tray, keeled over like a sack of spuds, and woke up to find he’d already been demobbed. Brutal.”

“I tried to keep a straight face, but it was impossible. Men who had stormed buildings and carried bergens for miles fell at the sight of a needle. Still, the tests were important. Kosovo was no place for weak knees or fainting spells. Better to find out in Nottingham than in Pristina.”

“Meanwhile, the next poor sods were marched into the Clerk’s Office — home of the dreaded paperwork mountain. Pay forms, Next Of Kin declarations, emergency contact updates, and — just to keep spirits high — a friendly reminder to write your will. Preferably before lunch. Nothing like thinkin’ about your own funeral while queuein’ for custard tart.

Now, me, Johan, Vinka, and Marlin? We were already squared away. No day jobs to argue over, no civvy salaries to match, and wills already sorted from years back. We breezed through. But watchin’ the others was comedy gold.

For the chosen few like Corporal Simpson — some whizz kid who normally earned more than a GP — the clerks bent over backwards, crunchin’ numbers to match his civvy pay. For the rest, it was Army standard: matched to a regular of the same rank. Decent uplift, plus Army grub thrown in, so nobody was really complainin’. Well… not out loud.

Course, the queue grumbled like a rugby scrum. Pens didn’t work, forms got lost, and half the room looked like they’d rather face a firing squad than another question about ‘next of kin.’ Bureaucratic purgatory at its finest.”

“For us, it was simple. We signed, we moved on. But watching the others wrestle with pay slips and wills… it was a strange kind of theatre. On the surface, only paper. Beneath, it was people making their commitments real. Ink on paper that bound them to the months ahead.”

“Those who survived the medicals and the admin gauntlet were marched off to collect bedding and find themselves accommodation. The blocks were fairly modern, mind you, but each room still crammed in about ten metal-framed beds. If you’d ever fancied findin’ out what it’s like to live in a sardine tin with nine other blokes, this was your chance.

The girls were better off — their own wing, behind a coded door, three locked fire exits, and guarded by the grumpiest female staff sergeant in history. Built like she could deadlift a Land Rover before breakfast. No chance of sneakin’ in there — and no one daft enough to try.

Mealtimes were split. Us senior ranks, we got the Sergeants’ Mess — decent grub, tablecloths, mugs without chips, all very civilised. The others were condemned to the main cookhouse, where the infamous ‘liver surprise’ lurked on the hotplate like a crime scene in gravy.

Every mornin’ began with a muster parade. Not for discipline, really — just to make sure nobody had scarpered in the night. Then one day the CDT team turned up unannounced — Compulsory Drugs Test. Plastic cups in hand, grinnin’ like they’d won the pools. Funny thing was, a few lads vanished afterwards. Just… gone. Probably ushered back to civvy street quicker than you could say, ‘Don’t inhale.’”

“I did not mind the rooms. Ten to a block was almost… comfortable, compared to the huts I had known on exercise. But it was strange to see how some struggled. For us, it was nothing new. For them, it was a world turned upside down.”

“Over the following two weeks we endured the full spectrum of MATTS — the Military Annual Training Tests. They are designed to bring everyone up to standard, or at least to identify those who are very far below it. For us, it was routine — weapons handling, first aid, navigation, fitness. We had done it all so many times before that it felt automatic, like tying your boots.

But for some, especially those who had treated TA drill nights as cheap beer and pizza clubs, it was… difficult. Very difficult. One young man asked if a compass would still work indoors. Another decided to use his rifle as a walking stick. I think the instructors aged ten years in two weeks. Still, we survived. And, in our case, with some amusement.”

“Amusement, she says. I nearly wet meself. A compass indoors! What did he think it ran on... Wi-Fi? And the bloke usin’ his rifle as a cane — I swear the poor weapon squealed in protest. You could almost hear it: ‘Oi mate, I’m for shootin’ not strollin’.’

Truth is, we flew through it all. Years of soldierin’ meant it was like ridin’ a bike — only with more bruises and fewer bells. We smashed the fitness, nailed the first aid, and cleared weapons drills like we’d been born with SA80s in our hands. Not that I recommend that for actual childbirth.

By the end, we were squared away, ready for Kosovo, and quietly smug. The others? Half of ’em were still tryin’ to pack their bergens without lookin’ like they’d stuffed a sofa inside. Eye-openin’? It was a flamin’ circus.”

“When it came time for the Basic Fitness Test, we were… strangely excited. At last, something physical, something without paperwork. A simple run, or so we thought. The course itself was flatter than Sweden in winter and about as straightforward as they come. The first mile and a half was to be a steady group run — nothing difficult, just keeping pace together.

But by the half-mile mark, the cracks began to show. Some of the reservists were gasping like fish out of water, red in the face and wobbling more than running. One man suggested that perhaps power walking should count. It did not.”

“Power walkin’! I nearly choked. Fella was swingin’ his arms like a demented mall cop — only thing missin’ was a whistle and a set of neon trainers. And this was just the warm-up! By the time we hit the proper pace, half of ’em looked like they were auditionin’ for Casualty.

Then came the best effort mile-and-a-half. Ten minutes thirty to prove you weren’t about to keel over. Easy for us — we’d done it more times than I’ve had bacon sarnies, and that’s sayin’ somethin’. But some of the lads? You’d think they’d been asked to win Olympic gold. A couple staggered in lookin’ like death warmed up. One even crossed the line backwards, swearing it made no difference — which, I suppose, it didn’t, except for his pride.

Those who failed got told they’d need ‘remedial PT’ when they joined their units. Truth is, they needed divine intervention. A fitness miracle, preferably one that involved less kebab and more runnin’ shoes.”

“I think Stephen enjoyed himself too much. But it was true — for us, it was routine. For them, it was survival. Still, everyone tried, and that counts for something.”

“Before the Combat Fitness Test even began, Marlin and I had our bergens weighed at the check point. The PT staff looked at the scales, frowned, and shook their heads. ‘Too heavy, Staff Sergeants,’ they said. We just looked back at them.

I told them plainly: ‘We’re SF-trained. We carry the proper weight. If the men can’t keep up with us, that’s their problem, not ours.’

They didn’t quite know what to say after that — except that one of them muttered something about us being ‘bloody keen.’”

“Bloody keen! Nah, mate, that weren’t keen — that was just normal for ’em. Vinka and Marlin had spent years yompin’ with 25 kilos as standard, same as us blokes. Six miles with a proper load? A walk in the park. Literally.

Now the official test said the infantry lads were to carry 25kg and the support arms just 15 kilos — a featherweight picnic hamper if you ask me. But our girls weren’t havin’ any of it. They marched off with the heavy bergens and a look that said: ‘Try keep up, boys.’”

“And many did not keep up.”

“Carnage, mate. Absolute carnage. The infantry lads did alright — they’re used to haulin’ bergens and broken dreams. But the support arms? They were droppin’ like extras in a Victorian faintin’ contest. And one fella, bless him, huffed at the back, ‘I’m more of a logistics man.’ Logistics! If you can’t logistically move yourself six miles down a country lane, you ain’t movin’ anyone’s ammo.

We four just cruised it. Eight miles was our norm back in the Regiment, so this six-miler? Gift. I reckon we finished lookin’ fresher than when we started.”

“Then came weapon handling. Oh dear. We were not expecting Bisley champions, but we did hope most of them at least knew which end the bullet came out of. It turned out, even that was optimistic. On the ranges for the Annual Personal Weapons Test, the chaos began.”

“Chaos? It was like watchin’ a brass band rehearse blindfolded. Some of ’em held the SA80 like it were a tuba. Ammunition disappeared faster than common sense, and the results were… well, charitable at best. Targets untouched, rounds whizzin’ somewhere into East Anglia, and stoppages happenin’ more often than Northern Rail. I’ve seen straighter fire from a pub dart team after ten pints.

And the best part? The instructors were tryin’ to keep a straight face, bless ’em. You could see in their eyes they were thinkin’, ‘Dear God, we’re takin’ these lot to war?’”

“Even we were not immune to trouble. The instructors were not happy that we brought our own weapons — SA80s zeroed back at the Group, with Sue Sat sights and 9mm pistols. They said it was ‘confusing the system.’”

“Confusin’ the system! What’s confusin’ about a rifle that’s actually sighted in properly? I mean, forgive me for wantin’ to hit the target, not the bloke in the next county. There was nearly a standoff until our CO stepped in. Cool as you like, just told ’em: ‘They’ll use their own weapons. End of discussion.’ That was that.

I reckon half the range sighed with relief. The other half were still tryin’ to work out how to get the magazine in the right way ’round.”

“For us, the APWT was routine. For many others, it was like trying to learn a new instrument… while it was on fire.”

“As with all things Army, it ended with a wash-up. That’s military speak for a debrief and occasionally a thinly disguised telling-off. They asked for honesty, so we gave it to them. At first politely, because that’s how you do these things. But there are only so many times you can say ‘with respect’ before your real thoughts begin to bubble up.

Our main gripe? Time waster’s paradise. There were entire swathes of the day when nothing happened. Just waiting. Tea drinking. And watching the less competent try to look busy while we wondered how they had ever made it past basic training. This, we said, was not preparation. Mobilisation training is supposed to set a deployable standard not simply rehearse the art of queueing.”

“Queuein’? More like professional tea appreciation. I swear I drunk enough brews to float a destroyer. The worst bit? You start thinkin’ you’ve gone mad, ‘cause after hours of sittin’ about, someone suddenly shouts, ‘Right lads, section attack!’ and half the course charges off like they’re stormin’ Goose Green. Other half still sittin’ there, dunkin’ biscuits. Chaos.”

“We also made it clear that too many were passed who should not have been. Competence matters. Some of these men and women, they needed more than remedial training. They needed directions to civvy street. Kindly, of course.”

“Kindly, yeah. Like, ‘Here’s your map, son. Don’t worry about a compass, you’d only try to eat it.’ But hey, the Army works in mysterious ways. Pass ’em all, sort ’em later. Classic.”

“In the end, I could not help myself. I pointed out, very politely, of course, just how ineffective the last two weeks had been. We had wasted more time than a civil service meeting about paperclips. If the goal was to prepare soldiers for deployment, then perhaps, just perhaps, we should have spent less time queuing for kit we didn’t need, and more time practising the things we actually would.

For example, instead of issuing everyone three pairs of snow gaiters and a lecture on ingrown toenails, maybe run proper drills on convoy discipline or how not to get lost in daylight. Instead of watching half the course collapse during a six-mile stroll, maybe teach them why fitness matters before they discover it the hard way. Instead of handing out will forms before lunch, maybe explain what the mission is, what the environment will be like, and how not to broadcast static when operating a radio station.

But of course, this is the Army. Improvement is rarely on the agenda. Tradition is and the tradition seems to be: waste everyone’s time equally, then clap yourself on the back for a job well done. Sarcasm aside, if Kosovo was relying on this system, then God help Kosovo.”

“We rocked up to the Group on Monday morning looking like walking adverts for a new Army fashion line. Webbing bursting, bergens creaking, and every one of us carrying enough new kit to outfit a small battalion. If Vogue had ever done a ‘Mobilisation Special,’ this would have been it.

The reality? We weren’t deploying until after New Year. Classic Army efficiency, mobilise everyone early, then give them absolutely nothing to do.”

“Yep, welcome to the Army’s favourite pastime: hurry up an’ wait. We spent the next few weeks reading up on Kosovo, firin’ off info requests to the radio lads already out there. Mostly the really important stuff, mind ‘Do you have heating?’ and ‘Is there coffee?’

Once that was done, we had a good hard look at our so-called kit mountain. And surprise, surprise — half of it was about as much use as a chocolate bayonet. Snow gaiters, Arctic socks, and mittens the size of oven gloves… all headed straight for the bin. We repacked with our own webbing and bergens, kit we actually trusted.”

“There was, however, one redeeming feature: a sleek black ops bag. For once, the Army issued something practical. Lightweight, sturdy, and just the right size for what we needed.”

“It looked cool too which, let’s be honest, is half the battle. You can survive without heating, but you’ve got to look good doin’ it.”

“For Christmas and New Year, we did the sensible thing, we escaped. Packed up the kids and headed to Sweden for a proper family lodge getaway. It was everything a military family dreams of: roaring fires, crisp snow, and wood-fired saunas that steamed away the madness of mobilisation. The girls cooked up feasts that would make a ration pack weep with shame, and the boys insisted on demonstrating their skiing prowess which, in Stephen’s case, looked suspiciously like falling with style.”

“Oi, I’ll have you know I was graceful! Alright… maybe not as graceful as Vinka makin’ it look easy, glidin’ past me while I was still tryin’ to work out which bit of the ski was the brake.”

“Snow had fallen thick around the lodge, muffling the world in white. Inside, the fire crackled, the tree glowed, and every corner smelled of pine, cinnamon, and the mulled wine Johan had declared ‘too sweet’ yet refilled twice already. Tim and Petra had arrived from Stockholm the day before, coats dusted with snow, faces flushed with cold. Now they sat with us, warm and laughing, part of the circle once more.

Tim leaned back in his chair, a glass in hand, and grinned. ‘Embassy life, eh? Who’d have thought it. Not much like the Battalion. My Swedish is better now — Petra insists we speak it at home. Half the time I think in two languages at once.’

Petra smiled, giving his arm a squeeze. ‘He does well. Sometimes he even dreams in Swedish.’

Stephen chuckled, shaking his head. ‘Blimey. From Poacher Sergeant Major to embassy staff and speakin’ Swedish in his sleep. Don’t let the brass hear — they’ll have you runnin’ language classes for half of Whitehall.’

Johan raised his glass. ‘You have done well, Tim. From Northern Ireland, Sandhurst, Bosnia, Cyprus — and now Stockholm. Not every path is straight, but yours is a good one.’

The laughter softened then, just a little. Marlin glanced towards Stephen, then at me. She did not need to say it; we all felt the same weight. Kosovo loomed. Orders were close, and though the tree lights sparkled and the fire kept the cold at bay, the thought of leaving again hung in the air.

I reached across and touched Petra’s hand. ‘For now, it is Christmas. Family. Warmth. The rest… we will face it together, when it comes.’

Petra squeezed back, her eyes bright. Tim nodded, his grin gentler now. Around us, the fire snapped, glasses clinked, and for that evening at least, the world was held at bay by love, laughter, and the quiet strength of being together.

“Right then. To family — near or far. To the roads we’ve walked, and the ones still ahead. To Tim and Petra, keepin’ the flag flyin’ in Stockholm. And to the rest of us — Kosovo or wherever they send us next — may we come back in one piece, and may the Mess never run out of port.”

The room erupted in laughter, glasses touched, and the toast hung in the firelight — a promise as much as a prayer.

“Julafton in the lodge had its own rhythm. Snow lay thick outside, glittering in the lamplight, while indoors every candle we owned was lit. The long table groaned under the weight of herring, meatballs, ham, Janssons frestelse, and plates of ginger biscuits that the children — now grown, yet still mischievous — had stolen by the handful. Papa Erik carved the ham with the same ceremony he always had, while Mama Anna fussed with the glögg, ensuring every cup was warm and spiced just right.

We sang carols in Swedish and English, laughter slipping between verses, and Stephen — claiming he was ‘tone deaf but spirited’ — led the final chorus anyway, with Johan booming at his side. When the clock chimed, we gathered round the tree. Gifts were exchanged with teasing and delight: hand-knitted socks, bottles of wine, small treasures wrapped with care. Petra and Tim handed out Swedish books for the children, while Silvi had baked tins of biscuits for each household.

It was noisy, heartfelt, and utterly ours. The sort of Julafton that wrapped you in warmth and made the winter outside feel very far away.

Christmas morning came with a quiet reverence. The snow still lay deep, crunching under boots as we walked together down to the village church, the bell pealing across the frozen fields. Inside, the air was cold but filled with candlelight and the scent of pine. The pews creaked as we settled in — three generations side by side, scarves and coats tucked under arms.

The service was in Swedish, of course, but the hymns needed no translation. Voices rose in harmony, Stephen’s Cockney edge blending surprisingly well with Johan’s baritone, and Marlin’s soft alto carrying above. Children’s voices, now grown yet familiar, joined with ours, and for a moment it felt as though the years themselves were singing.

When the priest spoke of peace and light, I felt Stephen’s hand slip into mine. Around us, family bowed heads, candles flickered, and the world outside seemed to pause. Afterward, we spilled out into the crisp morning air, breath misting, cheeks flushed.

We walked back to the lodge together, boots crunching on the snow, the church bells fading behind us. Ahead, the fire waited, the table set once more, and the promise of another Christmas meal — full of stories, laughter, and the unspoken comfort of being together.”

“New Year’s Eve in the village was magical. Log fires blazing, mulled wine warming everyone’s hands, folk dancing in the square, children pelting each other with snowballs, and fireworks cracking overhead. And then, of course, there was Johan.”

“Ah, yes — Johan in a Santa suit. Started the night as Father Christmas, ended the night trying to ski home as if it was the North Pole express. Nearly took out a snowman and three fence posts on the way. The villagers loved it, though, Santa on skis! Never seen so many people cheer while lookin’ terrified.”

“We came back to England refreshed, defrosted, and… marginally more rotund. But most of all, together. That, before Kosovo, before everything, was the best gift of all.”

“Mid-January, we finally deployed as a team to 19 Brigade HQ, just outside Pristina. The setting? A once-proud university building that now looked like a Cold War museum had sneezed on it. Concrete, dust, and that lingering institutional soup smell you find in every canteen east of Germany.

Accommodation? Tents. Heated? Not quite. The diesel heaters worked until the temperature dropped below ‘bloody cold’, at which point the fuel waxed in the pipes and the heaters became very expensive pieces of modern art.”

“Yeah, abstract art titled ‘Hope Dies at -29.’ I swear, that first week was like survivin’ on the moon. You could feel your eyelashes freezin’ every time you blinked. By morning, the inside of the tent looked like someone had thrown a snowball fight in their sleep.”

“We bunkered down like polar explorers. Thank the kit gods for Arctic sleeping bags and training. Honestly, I don’t think I moved from the neck down for three days. By the time the sun came up, we all looked like vacuum-packed sausages in Gore-Tex.”

“Speak for yourself, I looked more like a frozen pastie. Every night it was the same ritual: crawl in, zip up, mutter prayers to the diesel heater, and pretend you couldn’t hear Johan swearing at his toes goin’ numb. Marlin just rolled her eyes like the Viking she is, apparently -29 is ‘a fresh breeze’ back in Sweden.”