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

Real British military & life stories with humour, heart, and history—SAS to PsyOps, Cold War Germany to Kosovo. Rugby, skiing, travel, and family woven through deployments from the 1970s–00s. Authentic veteran storytelling, no fluff—subscribe for true Army life.

In Book Three – Chapter Two, we mobilise for Kosovo with the British Army’s 15(UK) Psychological Operations (PsyOps) Group—from Chilwell’s kit mountains and medicals to a snow-laden Christmas in Sweden, then wheels-up to Pristina. Expect real military life: admin chaos, MATTS, CDT, APWT on the ranges, CFT yomps, and the black humour that keeps veterans sane. On the ground we build the PSE (Psychological Support Element), craft campaigns, and stand up radio/print—leaflets, messaging, and the first issues of the Serb Telegraph with help from sharp local interpreters. There’s liaison with Battle Groups, media ops at Mitrovica, coffees at Camp Bondsteel, calm efficiency with SweBat, and the daily graft of PsyOps: influence, reassurance, and truth told clearly.

If you love true military stories, British Army history, SAS to PsyOps transitions, Cold War Germany, Kosovo 1999/2000, and the human side of service—plus sport, rugby, skiing, travel, and family—this episode is for you. Authentic veteran voices, humour, grit, and heart.

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

Transcript

“The next morning, with icicles still hanging off our eyebrows, we cracked on and established the PSE — Psychological Support Element. Not to be confused with PTSD, though some of the paperwork came dangerously close. Weeks of prep back at the Group meant we weren’t walking in blind; at least we knew who was fighting who, and more importantly, who was listening to what.

Marlin and I dove straight into Intel and campaign planning with the boss. That was our arena — taking complex politics, raw field reports, and far too many acronyms, then turning it into messaging that people might actually pay attention to. Propaganda with purpose — or as Johan liked to call it, ‘weaponised bedtime stories.’”

“Yeah, don’t let her undersell it — those two could spin leaflets into Shakespeare if you gave ‘em half an hour and a dodgy printer. Meanwhile, Johan and I got the joy of liaison duties with the Battle Groups. Which, translated, means we became roving info-vacuums — listening in, askin’ awkward questions, and charm-blaggin’ our way through meetings to figure out what was actually goin’ on. Bit like bein’ nosy neighbours, only with camouflage.”

“Stephen calls it ‘charm-blagging.’ The rest of us called it ‘grinning until people gave him answers just to make him go away.’ Still, it worked. Between Johan’s calm authority and Stephen’s… persistence, we got the ground truth quickly enough.”

“Our team lead was none other than Major Bruce, a fellow Royal Anglian. Once upon a time, he’d been a green, fresh-faced subaltern, and Johan had been his long-suffering platoon sergeant — a detail Johan was only too delighted to remind him of at every opportunity. Now Major Bruce was older, wiser, and technically in charge… though still utterly incapable of making a decent brew. Some things never change.”...

“Honestly, I’d rather drink puddle water. But fair play — he had a knack for seeing the big picture, even if his tea tasted like it came out of a car battery.”

“Our 2IC was Flight Lieutenant Hamilton, RAF through and through. She had the sharpness of a scalpel, the organisational skills of three secretaries, and a glare that could’ve defrosted those diesel pipes. She ran the office like an air traffic controller on espresso — which, to be fair, is exactly what you want when you’re juggling psyops, battle group liaison, and a boss with questionable tea etiquette.”

“Yeah, she could stop a section of Paras mid-charge with one raised eyebrow. I should know — I nearly dropped my mug once when she caught me nickin’ her stapler.”

“And then there was our very own Lance Corporal Simpson. TA by trade, graphic designer by profession. He could take a vague request like, ‘We need a leaflet to stop looting,’ and turn it into a slick campaign in three hours flat. Mascots, slogans, artwork polished enough to impress NATO… though once he did hand us a draft with a questionable cartoon goat that sparked a whole day’s debate. Regardless, he quickly became the beating heart of the print section.”

“Best bit? He worked faster than the coffee machine. And unlike Bruce’s brews, you could actually consume the product without permanent damage.”

“Lance Corporal Simpson was one of those rare gems the Army occasionally produces — trains up to be far too good, promptly loses to civvy street, then wins back again by sheer accident and a well-placed advert. A former regular Royal Engineer, he’d specialised in map-making and printing. Think cartographic wizardry meets Combat GQ.”

“Basically, he could make a minefield look like a Michelin guide. Which, if you ask me, is talent.”

“After nine years in uniform, he was headhunted by a graphic design firm who paid him double, gave him a shiny title, and even threw in a fancy coffee machine. For a while, life was good. But there was something missing. Civilian life, as comfortable as it was, lacked the chaos, the camaraderie… and yes, the camo, that he secretly craved.”

“So when he stumbled across one of our rather flashy recruitment ads in a design magazine — you know, the ones aimed at ‘weirdos with charm and linguists who love leaflets’ — nostalgia walloped him like a runaway bergen. Next thing you know, he’s in our office with a grin, a portfolio, and enough caffeine in his system to fuel an armoured brigade.”

“We didn’t just accept him. We practically gift-wrapped him a desk, a stack of A3 paper, and a licence to get creative. And with that, the print section had its beating heart.”

“Of course, nothing in the Army ever runs without a hitch. Simpson, despite being worth his weight in gold leaflets, had to take a drop in rank when he rejoined. Cue eye rolls from everyone who knew better. The CO was already working behind the scenes to get his full Corporal status reinstated.”

“Only problem? No one actually told him. So there he was, merrily churning out posters at Chilwell, thinking he was still a Lance Jack — until his first pay slip dropped through. Nearly lost his brew on the spot. Right there in black and white: Corporal Simpson. Talk about an anti-climax.”

“It took a couple of days to sort out his rank slides, during which we gleefully christened him ‘Lance-but-not-really.’ He took it in good humour, mostly. And to be fair, pay-wise he wasn’t exactly crying into his tea. Thanks to mobilisation rules, his Army pay was matched to his civvy salary.”

“Which meant he was earning more than the rest of us put together — and could’ve easily bought the Mess a round. Not that he ever did. Funny, that.”

“In Kosovo, we were assigned two local interpreters — both female, one Serbian and the other ethnic Albanian. On paper, that sounded like a recipe for friction, but in reality, they were brilliant. Sharp-witted, professional, and with a sense of humour that could cut through barbed wire. The fact that they got along was nothing short of miraculous, given the tensions outside the wire.”

“Miraculous? It was like watching cats and dogs not only share a bowl, but then swap jokes over it. They made half the lads look slow on the uptake. Frankly, they kept us on our toes.”

“With Marlin and me being Int Corps and cleared to read all the sparkly, highly classified material, the planning was smooth and fast. We’d already prepped a campaign plan before our boots hit Balkan soil, and thanks to our interpreters, we were able to adjust it on the fly — tailoring leaflets, broadcasts, and messaging with cultural nuance instead of the usual blunt hammer.”

“The biggest challenge? Reassuring the Serb population they could travel safely without needing a battalion escort or disguising themselves as shepherds. Easier said than done. One chap swore blind he was ‘just out tending goats,’ despite wearing brand-new Nike trainers. Didn’t fool anyone.”

“Our little set-up at the university complex was… let us say eclectic. Two offices in the main building, decorated not by design but by necessity — a few maps on the walls, some tatty posters, and one kettle that looked older than half the staff. In the cellar — which felt more like a medieval crypt than a modern workplace — we kept the printer and other spare kit. It was colder down there than a penguin’s picnic, so naturally no one volunteered to use it. Poor Corporal Simpson would only descend when he absolutely had to print something, and always came back looking as though he’d wrestled a ghost.

I shared the slightly larger office with Marlin and the Boss. That was where the real work happened — intelligence, campaign strategy, all the plans and plotting that kept the machine moving. Johan and Stephen? They were hardly ever in camp. They ‘hot-desked’ in theory, but in reality they floated around the Battle Groups like wandering salesmen, armed with leaflets, maps, and a suspicious number of biscuits.”

“One day, me an’ Johan got roped into Media Ops at a mass grave just outside Pristina. Don’t let the fancy label fool you — it weren’t soldierin’, it weren’t protectin’ anyone. It was standin’ there in combats, tryin’ to keep the hacks in order, lettin’ ’em in once the forensics were done, and takin’ in the horror yerself whether you wanted to or not.

Nothin’ on God’s earth preps you for that. The sight alone — bodies piled, stripped of all dignity — it stops you dead. Then the smell hit. Christ. It weren’t just bad — it was like every foul stink you’ve ever known rolled together, an’ then some. Rot, damp, death — it didn’t just hit your nose, it crawled inside you. You could taste it. It clung to your clothes, your skin, your soul.

Even the hardened hacks, the ones who’d been everywhere, were chuckin’ up behind hedges. One CNN bloke dropped straight into a nest of his own cables. Out cold. Johan, bone-dry as always, just muttered, ‘That’s one way to dodge the interview.’ Normally I’d have cracked up. That day? Nah. That one got under the skin. Stays with you... Still does.”

“We spent a fair bit o’ time with the Swedish Army, mainly in the Serb enclave of Gračanica, where they were looking after local security. Working with ’em was a joy — calm, efficient, never flustered, and always armed with coffee strong enough to wake the dead. Proper Swedish rocket fuel, that.

The real treats, though, were our visits to the Bishop and the monks at the monastery. Now that was somethin’ else. Sacred icons starin’ down at you, incense hangin’ in the air, monks driftin’ about in their robes — and us, sittin’ there with notebooks, talkin’ leaflet drops and community news. The helmets and flak jackets? They stayed slung in the back of the Land Rover. Soft approach, always.

Didn’t seem to bother the monks one bit. They were delighted to chip in, writin’ regular articles for the Serb Telegraph — our paper for the locals. And every time, without fail, they’d kick things off with, ‘As Saint Sava once said…’ Gave our little rag a proper holy edge. Not many psyops papers can claim a saint as a guest columnist, eh?

It was Corporal Simpson who dreamt up the Serb Telegraph. Clever bloke — though he nearly lost his mind over the Cyrillic script. He asked for the Adobe Creative Suite, the Central European version that would’ve made it easy. Naturally, the supply chain geniuses sent him the basic one. Useless. In the end he had to borrow another laptop just to type the alphabet properly. Big headache. Finally, we solved it the Balkan way — picked up a bootleg copy down at the market. No paperwork, no receipts, but it worked.

Couldn’t resist, could I? I grinned at him: ‘Well done, Simmo — you’ve gone from Corporal to editor-in-chief of the Belgrade Bootleg Times. Just don’t expect royalties.’ Simmo rolled his eyes and muttered somethin’ unprintable, but truth be told, I reckon he was secretly proud.”

“When the first edition of the Serb Telegraph finally rolled off the press, Simmo held it aloft as though he had just delivered the Ten Commandments. Crisp pages, Cyrillic headlines, and even a saintly quote courtesy of the monks. He was glowing with pride.

Stephen leaned back in his chair, smirking. ‘Well, look at that! Hot off the press from our very own Rupert Murdoch — only without the yachts or the lawsuits. Careful, Simmo, you’ll have the Times ringing you up for a job.’

Johan, deadpan as ever, added, ‘Only if they need a black-market subscription.’

Marlin flicked through the pages, raising an eyebrow. ‘I think you missed your calling, Corporal. All this time in uniform, when really you should have been editor of Bootleg Weekly.’

Simmo tried to keep a straight face, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. ‘Laugh it up, you lot. Without me, you’d still be drawing cartoons with crayons.’

Stephen shot back, ‘Yes, but mate — admit it. This is the first paper in history powered by dodgy software and Balkan stallholders. That’s something to be proud of!’

Even Simmo cracked at that, and for a moment the office filled with laughter, the smell of fresh ink, and a ripple of pride. Our paper. Our voice. A team effort — even if it had begun with a bootleg CD from the market.

When the first Serb Telegraph hit the streets, we went out together — the whole team, the two interpreters, and a full Swedish patrol. To top it off, the Bishop insisted on joining us, along with a pair of monks in full robes. What began as a simple newspaper delivery ended up looking more like a mass demonstration — armoured Swedes, our little band, and holy men swinging incense. All we lacked was a brass band to complete the spectacle.

The villagers did not know whether to salute, cross themselves, or simply ask for a copy. In the end they did all three. Old women slipped papers into their shopping baskets, young men turned straight to the football scores, and children ran ahead waving them like banners. For a moment, the whole street felt like a festival of newsprint. Strange, surreal, and somehow exactly right.”

“Stephen, naturally, could not resist. He nudged me and said, ‘From Aikido throws to paper-round champion of Kosovo — and now with your very own marching band. You’re goin’ up in the world, love.’ I gave him my best glare, but even the Bishop chuckled.

Now and then we treated the girls to lunch trips — part morale, part diplomacy. Sometimes we drove up to SweBat HQ, where the meatballs alone were worth the journey, or down to Camp Bondsteel — the great American fortress planted in the middle of Kosovo. That place was something else, like a slice of Texas airlifted straight into the Balkans. Their PX was heaven and hell in equal measure: pallets of M&Ms, Gatorade in colours you would never find in nature, and Oakleys cheap enough to make you question your eyesight.

We were usually hosted by the 4th POG, the US PsyOps lads — loud, funny, and always ready for a laugh. Between them, us, and the rest, we built good links with every other PsyOps crew knocking about Kosovo. The Germans — efficient as a well-oiled gearbox. The Norwegians — stoic, barely blinked. The Finns — so deadpan it was almost comic. The Italians — late every time, but stylish with it. The Spaniards — fed you like family. The French — well… they were very French. The Irish — brilliant craic, never a dull moment. And the Russians — always… intriguing.

Johan and Stephen spent most of their time flitting from Battle Group to Battle Group — officially to check on the messaging, though in truth it was half lunch, half gossip. Not a bad way to spend a tour, if you ask me.

From my side, those ‘lunch trips’ were very educational. Stephen and Johan claimed it was all about building alliances, but the way their eyes lit up in the PX, you would have thought they were schoolboys let loose in a sweet shop. Stephen emerged once with three pairs of Oakleys balanced on his head like some eccentric fashion model, while Johan carried enough M&Ms to feed a battalion.”

“Marlin and I enjoyed the food and the company, of course — the Italians always managed to sneak us proper coffee, the Spaniards insisted we eat seconds, and the Norwegians somehow made silence into an art form. But truly, watching our two husbands ‘networking’ over Gatorade flavours was the funniest part. PsyOps, they called it. I called it shopping with extra steps.

We had been issued a civvy-spec Land Rover Safari which, compared with the usual rattling green box we had endured over the years, felt as though we had stolen a Bentley. A proper TDi engine that actually started first time — miracle of miracles — seats you could sink into, and a gearbox that didn’t sound as though it was begging for mercy every time you found third.

Of course, we were not foolish. Webbing and body armour stayed slung in the back, rifles and pistols close to hand up front. Not that we expected a gunfight every time we nipped out for coffee, but Kosovo traffic had a way of keeping you honest. One minute you were cruising along all civilised, the next a goat was in the fast lane and some battered Yugo was reversing at you down a dirt track. Made the M25 look like a Sunday picnic.

Stephen drove it like it really was a Bentley — polishing the dashboard with his sleeve while swerving goats. I teased him, ‘If you had white gloves, you would wear them.’ He only laughed and told me I was jealous of his smooth gear changes.

Every time the Safari hit a pothole, I would smirk from the passenger seat and remark, ‘Easy there, Chauffeur Heale. Mind the suspension — it is not your Bentley.’ And if a goat wandered across the road, I would clutch the dashboard with mock drama and whisper, ‘Your Excellency, perhaps we should let the livestock pass first?’”

“Marlin and Johan, of course, joined in. Whenever Stephen parked up, Johan would mutter, ‘Don’t forget to tip your driver,’ and Marlin once opened the door for me with a flourish: ‘Madam has arrived at Bondsteel. Will sir be polishing the hubcaps now?’

Stephen simply rolled his eyes and carried on, but secretly, I think he enjoyed the title. Chauffeur Heale. Our very own Bentley boy in a Balkan Land Rover.

We visited the Russians a few times — more out of curiosity than necessity. They had arrived in Kosovo with all the subtlety of a brass band, storming Pristina Airport as though they were re-enacting Red Dawn, then announcing they were in charge. No one argued — not because we agreed, but because we were all too busy thinking: what on earth are they playing at?

On one visit, we made the rookie mistake of staying for lunch. That was a grave error. They served up what I can only describe as a culinary crime scene: limp pasta drowning in some bizarre concoction of warm milk, sunflower oil, and a sad-looking vegetable they called buche. Imagine cabbage — if cabbage had completely given up on life. We did not dare ask questions. We simply nodded politely, forced it down, and swore an oath never — ever — to sample Russian hospitality again.

Stephen tells it like a comedy, but I promise you, that Russian lunch was no laughing matter. Even our Swedish field kitchen, which could turn reindeer into rubber on a bad day, never produced anything quite so… creative. Warm milk, pasta, oil, and buche. My grandmother used to say cabbage could survive anything. Clearly she had never met Russian cooks.

Marlin leaned over halfway through and whispered, ‘If this is peacekeeping, I surrender.’ We finished our plates because manners demanded it, but afterwards I told Stephen that next time we visited, we were bringing sandwiches.”

“Vinka weren’t kiddin’ about the sandwiches. Next time we so much as mentioned visitin’ the Russians, she gave me that look — the one that says no arguments. So me and Johan nipped down to Bondsteel PX, loaded up with bread, ham, cheese, and enough crisps to keep NATO in business.

From then on, it became a bit of a running gag. Operation Sandwich Drop, I called it. Secret squirrel business, all covert and hush-hush. One time I even wrote it on the whiteboard at HQ: ‘Tasking: Covert NATO Sandwich Ops. Objective: survive Russian hospitality.’ The Boss weren’t impressed, but the lads thought it was hilarious.

So when we rocked up at the Russian camp again, we went through the motions — salutes, smiles, all proper. But the second they hinted at lunch, we pulled the old ‘urgent call back to HQ’ trick and scarpered sharpish, straight to the Land Rover where our sandwiches were waitin’. Best tactical withdrawal I’ve ever been part of.

To this day, if anyone mentions Russian cuisine, I just grin and say, ‘Not unless it’s in a sandwich, mate.’”

“There was a spot of bother up north in Mitrovica, right by the Serbian border in the French sector. The Serbs, clearly having a slow day, were raking 50 cal bursts across the river as if it were some kind of Olympic sport. The town’s main bridge — the only proper crossing into the centre — was catching the lot.

So, naturally, the four of us were sent to ‘assess the situation.’ Which in military-speak usually means drink bad coffee, stand in the cold, and make suggestions no one listens to. Sure enough, the world’s press were already there, swarming like flies on a carcass. We even clocked Kate Adie, calm as you like, notebook in hand, rounds cracking somewhere in the distance. Unfazed, that woman.

The French troops, bless them, were trying their best to keep a lid on things — though from what we saw, they’d brought their worst chefs with them. Their rations seemed to consist of duck fat, bread that broke teeth, and a side order of philosophical despair.

Vinka leaned over her mug of sludge-coffee and said, ‘Even the Russians fed us better.’ That got a round of groans, because it was true. Marlin shook her head. ‘Next time we come north, I’m bringing sandwiches.’

Johan and I, perhaps a bit giddy from lack of sleep, decided to liven things up. I grabbed an empty notebook and pretended it was a microphone. ‘This is Stephen Heale, live from Mitrovica Bridge, where the French Army has bravely defended the town armed only with baguettes and a questionable philosophy degree.’

Johan chimed in with his best serious-newsreader voice: ‘Reports indicate the Serbs are competing for gold in the long-distance 50 calibre relay. Back to you in the studio, Kate.’

Kate Adie gave us a look — half amused, half pitying — and carried on scribbling. The girls? They rolled their eyes in perfect unison. But I swear I caught Marlin hiding a smile.

Flight just shook her head and murmured, ‘Tragic. Kate Adie spends years building credibility and you two ruin it in thirty seconds.’”

“From my side, the whole thing looked ridiculous. The Serbs were firing like fools across the river, the French were serving coffee that tasted of burnt tyres, and my husband and Johan decided it was the perfect stage for their comedy debut as war correspondents. Stephen held a notebook like a microphone and Johan spoke in his very best BBC English. I wanted to sink into the ground.

When Kate Adie walked past, utterly unfazed, I apologised on their behalf. ‘Forgive them — if they don’t make jokes, they will go mad.’

She gave me the faintest smile and said, ‘That’s usually the way of it.’ Then she nodded at Stephen and Johan clowning in the background. ‘At least they’ve got good timing. Shame they’re wasting it here.’

I decided I liked her very much.

Later, when the shouting had died down and the press were drifting back to their vans, I found myself beside Kate Adie. She was wrapping her scarf tighter against the wind, her notebook tucked under one arm. For a moment she looked less like the legend I had seen on television and more like any tired woman trying to keep warm in the Balkans.

I said quietly, ‘I am sorry again for the circus. My husband thinks he is a comedian.’

She gave a soft laugh. ‘They all do, dear. Humour’s a shield. If you can laugh at it, you can bear it — at least for a little while.’

I nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. ‘Sometimes it feels like if we stop joking, we will fall apart.’

Kate studied me for a moment, her eyes sharp but kind. ‘Then don’t stop. But remember — you don’t always have to be the strong one, either. It’s all right to let the weight down, now and then.

Kate tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with that unmistakable reporter’s instinct. ‘Your husband, you say? There sounds like a story there…’

I smiled, a little wry. ‘Many stories. Most of them not for print.’

Her lips curved as though she understood perfectly. ‘The best ones never are.’

For a moment we simply stood together in the cold, two women on different sides of the notebook, sharing the quiet knowledge that behind every joke, every uniform, every headline, there was always more than anyone could see.”

Then Stephen wandered over, notebook still in hand like a prop, and announced far too loudly, ‘Right, love, I’ve cracked it, exclusive scoop: French Army to open bakery on the bridge, first hundred baguettes free with every ceasefire!’

Kate raised an eyebrow, half amused, half exasperated, and murmured to me, ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’

I could only sigh. My husband, the comedian. A story in himself, though perhaps not the one Kate Adie was looking for.”

She patted my arm, just once, then walked away towards her crew. I stood there in the cold, thinking that it took a journalist to remind me of something soldiers often forget: we are human first.”