Operation Curry & Camaraderie – Real British Army Life in Kosovo | The Parallel Four Book Three Chapter Four

In Chapter Four of The Parallel Four, join Stephen, Vinka, Johan, and Marlin as life in Kosovo 2000 takes a lighter turn — proof that even in a war zone, morale often comes plated with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. From PsyOps operations in Pristina to curry nights that drew half of NATO, this true-to-life story captures the humour, chaos, and humanity of real British soldiers abroad.

Meet JB, the charming French officer who “predicted” cookhouse menus, the Irish who threw legendary St Patrick’s parties, Norwegians who turned Batllava Lake into a ski park, Germans whose discipline could be weaponised, Spaniards who won hearts with paella, and Italians whose tiramisu might just bring world peace.

Through it all, the team balances psychological operations, cultural diplomacy, and military humour — showing how friendship, food, and laughter kept spirits alive.

If you love true British Army stories, veteran humour, rugby camaraderie, skiing escapes, and authentic tales of service from Germany to Kosovo, this is your next must-watch episode.

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Transcript

“While we were up there, we worked alongside a young French officer named JB — their version of a Public Information Officer. Essentially PsyOps in a beret, though the French would sooner eat their kepis than call it that. ‘Psychological warfare,’ he told us, ‘sounds… too anglophone.’

JB was a delight — enthusiastic, a little eccentric, and always up for a chat. He hosted us warmly in Mitrovica, then made a habit of coming down to Pristina whenever he could. Truth be told, it was not only for the company. Our cookhouse had earned a bit of a reputation, and JB quickly discovered he could swap duck-fat despair for proper British fare.

Speaking of food, 19 Brigade — our lot — were renowned across Kosovo for having the best chefs in theatre. Word spread faster than an RLC rumour, and before long we had people turning up at lunch as though it were Glastonbury with gravy. At one point, there was a German major, two Norwegian MPs, and a random American who claimed he was ‘just passing through,’ all queuing for roast beef and spotted dick. It got out of hand quickly. Eventually the mess had to issue meal passes — no pass, no plate. The food really was superb. We often joked that we were running a five-star restaurant with a side of military intelligence… though secretly we were just grateful not to be eating cabbage porridge again.

JB was charming, of course, but I noticed a pattern. He always seemed to appear on the days when the cookhouse served roast beef or curry night. ‘Coincidence,’ he would insist, eyes wide, napkin already tucked under his chin. Marlin and I teased him mercilessly. ‘Ah, so you have developed the gift of prophecy? You can smell Yorkshire puddings across Kosovo?’ He only laughed and helped himself to seconds.”

Stephen, naturally, couldn’t resist turning it into theatre. He stood at the cookhouse door one evening with a clipboard and said, “Name?”

“JB,” the Frenchman replied, confused.

“Purpose of visit?”

“To see my friends,” JB said, smiling hopefully.

Stephen tapped the board, dead serious. “Incorrect. Try again. Purpose of visit?”

JB threw up his hands. “Alright, alright — roast beef!”

The whole queue burst out laughing. Stephen stamped the air with an invisible seal of approval. “Pass granted. One portion only. Unless the chef says otherwise.”

JB played along, bowing like he’d just been knighted, and sure enough, ten minutes later he was back for seconds anyway.

“Course, I had to have a go. One night over curry I leaned across the table and said, ‘JB, mate, you’re supposed to be French intelligence, yeah? From what I can see, all your intel comes straight from our cookhouse menu board.’

He nearly choked on his naan, swore blind it was pure coincidence, then asked if there were any more poppadoms. I rest my case.”

“Stephen never let him live it down, but JB took it all in good humour. He kept coming, kept eating, and kept bringing us little snippets of French perspective in return. A trade of ideas and curries, perhaps — unusual diplomacy, but it worked. For all the jokes, he became a friend. One of those odd little bonds you make in theatre, stitched together by humour, circumstance, and very good roast beef.”

In the end, we decided it was fine. If our little corner of 19 Brigade could feed half the Psyops community and a wandering Frenchman with a big smile, then perhaps that was its own kind of operation.

“We got an invite from the Irish Army to join them for Sunday lunch on St Patrick’s Day — and let’s be honest, when the Irish throw a party, even in the middle of a conflict zone, you go. Our whole team scrubbed up, bundled into the Land Rover, and were whisked away into their sector — a quiet Catholic enclave tucked up in the hills south-east of Pristina.

It was one of those surreal Balkan moments: one week you’re standing over a mass grave, the next you’re clinking glasses over roast beef and soda bread while some fella in green combats belts out ‘Danny Boy’ on a tin whistle. For a couple of golden hours it didn’t feel like Kosovo at all — more like a Sunday in County Clare.

Couple of weeks later, the Irish had us back again for a local Patron Saint’s day. This time it was a proper joint effort with the village elders. The Irish, naturally, brought a piper. We brought our best manners. The villagers laid on a feast that would’ve sent Jamie Oliver to an early grave — platters of grilled lamb, fresh bread, mountains of cheese, and enough slivovitz, the local plum brandy, to burn a hole straight through your chest.

From there it descended into beautiful chaos. We were treated like honoured guests, serenaded with songs we couldn’t pronounce, dragged into dances we couldn’t follow, and fuelled with plum brandy until the world blurred. The photos later told the tale: me attempting to dance a jig with two left feet, Johan trying to play the bagpipes backwards, Marlin laughing fit to burst, and Simmo fast asleep under a table like a child after Christmas dinner.

Even Major Bruce — usually the picture of calm authority — joined in. At one point he was up front with the piper, pint in hand, belting out an Irish ballad he clearly didn’t know the words to. The lads loved it; the Boss had never seemed more one of us.”

“For me, it felt like being adopted into a second family — laughter, food, music, and friendship wrapped around us like a warm blanket. It was a reminder that even in a place scarred by war, people could still choose joy. Of course, the next morning the ‘joy’ came with splitting headaches and a solemn vow never to drink slivovitz again… until the next invitation.”

“Then came the Norwegians — who had clearly decided the best form of psychological operations was simply having a really good time. NorBat, the Telemark Battalion, invited us up to Batllava Lake for what they called a ‘relaxation day.’ Their idea of relaxing? Bringing along a high-powered Rib, a giant inflatable ring the size of a small house, a pair of water skis, and enough enthusiasm to power the national grid.

We packed a picnic, swimming kit, and half a chemist’s worth of factor 50 — pale as milk, the lot of us — and set off for a day of sheer nonsense. And it was glorious.

Simmo proved he had the balance of a tipsy giraffe on skis — one wobble, two flails, and straight into the drink with a splash that soaked half the shoreline. Johan, confident as ever, discovered that downhill skiing and water skiing are about as similar as rugby and ballet. The rest of us weren’t much better — each taking a turn, swallowing half the lake, and laughing until our ribs hurt.

By the end of it we were sunburnt, sore, and happier than we’d been in weeks. Even in a war zone, sometimes you need a beach day — even if your beach has goats on the shoreline and Norwegians shouting encouragement in three different dialects.”

“For me, that day at Batllava Lake felt like stolen treasure. Weeks of tension, of grim work and heavier thoughts, suddenly lifted. We were just young again — laughing, shrieking, tumbling off inflatables like children at summer camp. I can still hear Simmo shouting, arms windmilling, before his spectacular crash into the water. And Johan — so confident — the moment the boat pulled him upright, he went straight over on his face.

Stephen was still ribbing Johan for that face-plant when Flight, stretched out in the sun, muttered, ‘You two should stick to dry land. It’s the only thing you’ve learned to stay upright on.’ Even Major Bruce chuckled at that.

Marlin and I laughed so hard our stomachs ached. For a few shining hours, we forgot about mass graves, checkpoints, and propaganda leaflets. We had sun on our faces, water in our hair, and Norwegians cheering like lunatics on the shore. Even Major Bruce — who usually carried the weight of the world on his shoulders — was stretched out on the bank in his T-shirt, shoes off, grinning like a schoolboy. Seeing him relax made the rest of us breathe easier.”

“That night, as we nursed our sunburns, Stephen teased me that I screamed louder than the outboard engine. I told him, ‘Better to scream with joy than with fear.’ And for once, he didn’t have a comeback.

A couple of evenings later, the office was quiet in a way it rarely was. Johan and Stephen were away with one of the Battle Groups, Simmo had packed up, and the interpreters had gone home. Just the three of us remained — Major Bruce, Marlin, and me — paperwork stacked for once, mugs of lukewarm tea in hand. The Boss sat back in his chair, Combat 95s rumpled from the day, boots half-unlaced. For once, he looked less like a Major and more like a man catching his breath.

‘You know,’ he said after a pause, voice softer than usual, ‘when I first turned up in the battalion as a young officer, I hadn’t a clue. Green as grass. Hardy and I joined together — both of us fresh from Sandhurst, thinking we knew something about soldiering. Truth was, we didn’t know a bloody thing.’

He gave a small grin. ‘Johan took me under his wing straight away. Carried me through that first Northern Ireland tour — showed me when to listen, when to act, when to just shut up and keep the lads safe. I owe him more than he’ll ever admit. And Hardy — well, he was lucky enough to land Stephen as his platoon sergeant. Cheeky as hell, mouth on him like a market trader, but by God he knew the men and the job. He kept Hardy afloat when he was floundering. Between those two — Johan and Stephen — they got us through that first year. Without them, I doubt either of us young officers would have lasted.’

He stared into his mug for a long moment, then added quietly, ‘They shaped the officers we became. Taught us more about leadership than Sandhurst ever did. I don’t often say it out loud, but I’m proud to have served alongside them.’

The silence afterwards wasn’t awkward — it was full, honest. Marlin topped up the kettle, and I sat there thinking how much Stephen and Johan would treasure those words if they ever heard them.”

“Reality, of course, has a habit of booting you in the shins just when you think you’ve earned a breather. Not long after our lakeside antics, Johan and I got called up to Podujevo, where the Scots Dragoon Guards were facing a bit of a headache courtesy of the local council.

Said council, brimming with enthusiasm but not much foresight, had hoisted a massive Albanian flag over their government building. As you can imagine, the Serb population were about as happy as cats in a swimming pool. Tensions climbed, crowds gathered, and the whole thing was about to get properly spicy.

So there we were — me and Johan, rolling up with our trusty loudspeaker kit, standing out in front of a nervous baseline of armoured Scotsmen. Felt like we’d painted bull’s-eyes on ourselves in the shape of tannoys. Johan, cool as you like, handed the mic to the local official, who barked out that the flag would come down and everyone should head home.

Here’s the miracle — it actually worked. The crowd muttered, grumbled, shuffled their feet… then, bit by bit, they dispersed. No stones, no shots, no riot.

Johan and I just about collapsed with relief, looking at each other like, Did that really just happen? Another day ticked off in the weirdest workplace on Earth.”

“Back at base, Marlin and I heard the bare-bones version first: ‘situation resolved, no casualties.’ It sounded simple enough, but when Stephen and Johan finally walked back in, dusty and wired, I could see in their eyes it had been anything but.

Over supper Stephen gave us the story, glossing over the danger in that cocky way of his. ‘Oh, you know, just me and Johan standing out front with a loudspeaker while an angry crowd stared us down. Nothing special.’

I stared at him. ‘Nothing special? You were standing in front of a crowd that was ready to riot.’

He shrugged, grinning. ‘They didn’t. Job done.’

Marlin rolled her eyes. ‘You two will be the death of us.’

Later, when it was just the two of us, I held his hand a little tighter than usual. He called it another day at work. To me, it was another narrow escape — and another reminder of just how thin the line was between calm and chaos in Kosovo.”

“They called it Dynamic Response 2K — which, to my ears, sounded more like the title of a forgettable Hollywood action film than a NATO exercise. The United States Marine Corps, the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit, arrived with great enthusiasm. They did not creep quietly into Kosovo. No — they thundered in with columns of Humvees, seven-ton trucks, and the curious-looking Intermediate Fast Attack Vehicles bouncing along behind. It was a rolling steel parade that would have made any Cold War enthusiast weep with joy. For the local population, though, many of whom had only just learned not to dive into ditches at the sound of an engine, it was less joy and more panic. That, of course, was where we came in.

We went into full PsyOps overdrive. Posters, leaflets, radio broadcasts, community visits — everything short of hiring a brass band — all with one simple message: no, the Americans were not invading again, it was only an exercise. We repeated it in every language we could manage, until I could almost say it in my sleep. Even the local radio joined in, cheerfully reminding people to wave at the tanks instead of running from them. To everyone’s surprise, it worked. There was no mass panic, no stampede of livestock, and not a single grandmother spotted whacking a Humvee with her frying pan. For Kosovo, that counted as a quiet week.”

“For me, it was a strange kind of success. No riots, no panic, no frightened grandmothers. Measured against the weight of war, those seemed like such small victories — yet in Kosovo, small victories were everything.”

“During this time we also had a visitor — an Australian captain on Longlook, the Commonwealth exchange programme. He was a psychologist by trade, and joined our Group for a month. Somehow, in that short time, he managed both to earn the Kosovo Medal and to become a favourite with the team. Marlin and I were working on a particularly sensitive project then, and his insight was invaluable — not only for understanding trauma and community rebuilding, but also for deciding which biscuits best survived strong Serbian coffee.

He even came with us on a few visits to the monks in Gračanica. I never asked what he truly thought of our strange routine — psychological operations one moment, theological discussions the next, and then a detour for warm bread at a roadside bakery. But he took it all in his stride, smiling in that easy Australian way. Some people resist the chaos of Kosovo. He seemed to dance with it.

Stephen, of course, could not resist a jab. ‘Not bad, mate. Earn a medal, eat a biscuit, go home. Easiest deployment in NATO history.’ The Aussie just grinned, shrugged, and asked for another biscuit.

Meanwhile, Marlin, Flight Lieutenant Hamilton, and I found ourselves on a project that felt very different from the usual: a collaboration with War Child to build play areas for children in the neighbourhoods most battered by the conflict. For once there were no briefing packs, no leaflets, no carefully scripted messages. Just swings, slides, and the simple sound of children’s laughter.

I will never forget the day we opened the first one. A dozen Albanian toddlers swarmed the playground, eager and fearless, while I tried in vain to explain safety rules in three languages at once. They ignored me completely, of course, but at least they laughed while doing it.

The grand opening brought everyone out — local dignitaries, NATO brass, the press, even a few curious monks. And right in the middle of it all was a stubborn bouncy castle that refused to stay inflated. Dignified it was not. But memorable? Oh yes. Perhaps more than anything else we did, it reminded me why this kind of work mattered.”

“When Vinka told me about her playground adventure, I couldn’t stop grinning. ‘So let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘You’ve stared down angry crowds, wrangled monks, and out-argued mayors in four different languages… but a dozen toddlers on a swing set had you beat?’

She gave me that look — the one that could cut glass — but Marlin was already laughing. ‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘The children didn’t even blink. They just climbed higher.’

I leaned back in my chair, smug as anything. ‘Told you, love. Forget PsyOps, the real test of nerves is a playground full of five-year-olds. NATO should hand out medals for that.’

“In truth, Stephen was not wrong. Children carried no fear, no bitterness — only laughter and a fierce desire to play. For a few hours, their joy drowned out the echoes of war. No leaflet or broadcast could ever match that. It reminded me that our work was not only about influence or persuasion, but about hope — hope that one day, their laughter would be the only sound that mattered.”

“While Johan and I were sent up to Istog in north-western Kosovo to lend a hand to the Spanish Cavalry on a PsyOps project — bit of local outreach, some radio work, and a lot of smiling without shouting — we just happened to arrive bang on their Regimental Battle Honour Day. Pure coincidence, of course.

Now, the Spanish know how to celebrate. None of your limp sausage rolls or lukewarm curry trays. They dug pits, lit great roaring fires, and lowered cauldron-sized pans into the ground, covering them with palm leaves like some medieval tapas ritual. Out came the paella — mountains of saffron rice, prawns the size of your fist, and enough chorizo to make your eyes water.

It was glorious. Honestly, quite possibly the best meal of the entire tour. Johan and I did briefly consider defecting to the Spanish Army then and there — but decided that might be a bit extreme just for better lunch.”

“When Stephen and Johan came back from Istog, you would think they had returned from a five-star holiday, not a PsyOps project. They spoke of nothing but paella — prawns the size of lobsters, chorizo cooked in the earth, rice like golden treasure. I finally asked, ‘And the outreach with the townsfolk? The radio broadcasts?’

Stephen waved it off with a grin. ‘Yes, yes, all very successful… but the prawns, Vinka. You’ve never seen such prawns.’

Marlin and I just rolled our eyes. Leave it to the boys to turn a psychological operation into a food review.

Flight did not even look up from her papers. ‘Brilliant. NATO wins hearts and minds, one prawn at a time.’

Simmo chuckled and added, ‘I knew we were underfed. Should’ve joined the Spanish Army. They get battle honours and lunch.’

But seriously — Istog itself was practically sleepy by Kosovo standards. The loudest noise came from goats arguing in the street or a Fiat bouncing over potholes like it was made of tin cans. The Spaniards had settled in well and built strong ties with the local leaders, who, funnily enough, also seemed rather fond of paella. They told us the leaflets and the DR2K radio broadcasts we had helped set up were instrumental in calming nerves and building trust. Johan and Stephen were flattered, of course, though we strongly suspected the food had done more for peacekeeping than any leaflet ever could.

Between courses, our long-forgotten Spanish resurfaced — rusty, but good enough to raise laughs and trade a few heartfelt toasts with their officers. By the end of the day we waddled out of Istog stuffed, sun-kissed, and quietly wondering why we had not joined the cavalry in the first place.”

“Johan got himself tied up with another Battle Group that week, so it was me and Vinka who drew the short straw — or the long one, dependin’ on how you look at it — to head down to Prizren and link up with the German lot.

Now, the Germans… they do soldiering the way IKEA does flat-pack furniture: everything efficient, labelled, and slightly terrifying if you don’t follow the instructions exactly. Their camp was immaculate. Vehicles lined up like they were on parade, boots polished enough to blind you, and even the rubbish bins had neat little signs in triplicate. Made our place look like a jumble sale.”

“They welcomed us warmly — with coffee, of course. Strong, black, German coffee that could probably dissolve a spoon if you left it long enough. We sat in their briefing room while a young lieutenant showed us their latest messaging campaign. Everything was colour-coded, bullet-pointed, and perfectly aligned. I admit, it was impressive. Almost too perfect.

Stephen leaned across to me halfway through and whispered, ‘If they ever run out of soldiers, they could just weaponise their PowerPoint.’ I had to bite my lip to stop myself laughing.”

“They had their radio set-up humming away too — slick kit, crisp audio, jingles that sounded like they’d been borrowed from a Bavarian beer advert. Very upbeat. I asked one of their NCOs what they were aiming for, and he just said, dead serious: ‘We are projecting stability through tone.’ Brilliant. Only the Germans could win hearts and minds with a voiceover that sounded like it was sellin’ Volkswagen.”

“Yet beneath the order and precision, the Germans had heart. They had built strong ties with the local communities, especially in Prizren’s markets. Everywhere we went with them, shopkeepers waved, children smiled, and someone always seemed to offer us food.

At one point we found ourselves in a bakery, listening as the German captain explained their leaflet campaign while Stephen tried — without success — to eat a slice of bread the size of his head in one go. The baker laughed so hard he gave us another loaf to take back to camp.”

“I maintain I nearly managed it. But I’ll give it to the Germans — they knew what they were about. Professional, organised, and surprisingly good company once you got past the clipboard routine. On the drive back, Vinka said she respected their efficiency. Me? I just wanted to nick their coffee machine.”

“Before we left, the Germans insisted we stay for lunch in their field kitchen. It was not fancy, but it was hearty: schnitzel, potatoes, and sauerkraut, served with the same precision as their briefings. Trays slid across counters like clockwork, every portion identical. Stephen teased that it was the only time in Kosovo he had eaten a meal where the carrots were lined up in straight rows.

Driving back afterwards, I thought about the different nations we had worked with — Americans with their noise and energy, Spaniards with their feasts, Norwegians with their laughter, and now the Germans with their order and steadiness. Each brought their own flavour to Kosovo, their own way of keeping peace. Somehow, together, it all stitched into something that worked.

For me, the memory of Prizren will always be the sound of children greeting us in the market, the warmth of fresh bread in my hands, and the quiet strength of soldiers who believed that discipline and routine could help hold chaos at bay.”

“On the drive back, Vinka was all thoughtful about order, discipline, and international cooperation. Me? I just leaned over the wheel and said, ‘Tell you what, love — if the Royal Anglians ever run out of rations, I’m joinin’ the Germans. All the schnitzel you can eat and coffee strong enough to strip paint. That’s proper soldiering.’

She only shook her head, but I caught the smile she tried to hide.”

“Our last grand diplomatic outreach — which, let’s be honest, was another lunch mission in disguise — took us west to Peć, to visit the Italians. The Italians don’t muck about when it comes to bases. They’d set themselves up in what could only be described as a five-star alpine hotel, perched over the mountains toward Albania. The kind of place you’d expect ski instructors and yoga retreats, not paratroopers in combat boots.

Naturally, they’d brought their chefs. Not cooks, not ration packs — actual chefs. Fresh pasta, roasted meats, tiramisu that made you forget you were technically in a war zone. We half expected them to produce a wine list.

Their PsyOps was mostly about patrolling the border and keeping an eye on dodgy crossings — which they somehow managed to juggle between espresso breaks. They, too, praised our DR2K campaign, and told us they were seeing more cooperation and intelligence flowing in from the mountain villages.

I’ll admit, though, between the tiramisu and the view, I don’t remember much else.”

“From my side, watching Stephen and Johan in Peć was rather entertaining. They spent the first half-hour raving about pasta, tiramisu, and the mountain view like two tourists let loose on a package holiday. I had to remind them that we were technically at work.

To be fair, once the plates were cleared, they settled. They listened carefully, asked the right questions, and got to the all-important intelligence. Professionals when all was said and done. The Italians seemed genuinely impressed by how smoothly the DR2K campaign was feeding back through the villages.

Of course, afterwards, Stephen insisted the tiramisu was still the best part. Some things never change.”

“On the drive home I told Vinka, ‘If NATO ran on pasta and tiramisu, we’d have world peace by teatime.’ She rolled her eyes, but I swear she agreed.”

Back in the office a few days later, the great debate began.

Johan declared firmly:

“The Spaniards. No contest. That paella could end wars.”

Stephen shook his head.

“Nah, mate — Italians. Tiramisu on a mountain balcony? That’s diplomacy, that is.”

Marlin sipped her tea, thoughtful.

“You’re all wrong. It was the Irish. No one else gave us music and brandy strong enough to burn the paint off a Land Rover.”

Simmo piped up from behind his desk.

“Russians. Buche for the win.”

The room fell silent before bursting into groans and laughter.

Flight, deadpan as ever, folded her arms.

“Obviously the Norwegians. Any army that considers water-skiing a PsyOps tool has my respect.”

The Boss walked past just in time to hear the racket. He did not even slow his stride.

“None of you are getting posted to Catering.”

The office dissolved into laughter once more — proof that food, in Kosovo, was every bit as important as leaflets or loudspeakers.