From Macedonia to Kabul: Real British Army Life | PsyOps, Camaraderie & the Moment Everything Changed

Step inside the real world of British Army life — where humour, hardship, and history collide. In this episode, we follow the true-to-life journey of a Royal Anglian and Intelligence Corps team as they rebuild Psychological Operations from the ground up — from the chaos of Kosovo to the aftermath of 9/11 and the road to Kabul.

Expect raw honesty, black humour, and camaraderie forged in the thick of NATO deployments, PsyOps planning, and life inside multinational HQs across Europe. You’ll see how lessons from the Balkans shaped a new era of influence operations — where leaflets, radio, and human connection became as vital as any weapon.

This isn’t fiction — it’s the heartbeat of service life: long nights, laughter through exhaustion, and family holding the line back home. For those who’ve served, loved someone who has, or simply want to understand the real story behind the uniform, this is your front-row seat.

🇬🇧 Keywords: British Army life, PsyOps, Intelligence Corps, NATO, Kosovo, Macedonia, Afghanistan, 9/11, military storytelling, Royal Anglian Regiment, true military stories, camaraderie, veterans, Cold War Germany, deployments, Rugby, Skiing, adventure, humour, real life in uniform.

Transcript

“The advance party — our CO, the irrepressibly enthusiastic Ops Officer, and a Team Boss who could recite packing lists like Shakespearean sonnets — flew out first to set the stage. The rest of us followed soon after: the four of us, plus four other members of the Group. Eleven PsyOps personnel for a ninety-day mission. On paper, it looked like overkill. In practice, we called it ‘robust redundancy.’ Truthfully? It was just ensuring the kettle was never unmanned. Priorities, after all.”

“When we finally rolled into Skopje, our new ‘HQ’ turned out to be a converted shoe factory. Well, allegedly converted. To me it looked like they’d shooed out the last cobblers and shoved us in before the dust settled. Industrial chic, they called it. More like industrial cheap. Shelves on every wall, a smell that could’ve come from glue, leather, or possibly something long dead in the rafters, and pigeons squatting in the corners like they were the true NATO observers. Still, it was four walls and a roof, which in our line of work made it practically a five-star resort.”

“While the rest of us made the shoe factory vaguely habitable — sweeping pigeon droppings into neat piles, shifting boxes that weighed more than a corporal on payday, and debating whether NATO would fund industrial-strength air freshener — Johan burst out of the storeroom clutching a half-finished size 12 boot. He held it up like it was the Rosetta Stone. ‘Told you,’ he grinned. ‘One shoemaker short of reopening.’

Meanwhile, Johan and Stephen were volunteered — or perhaps volunteered themselves, depending on who you ask — to head south to Thessaloniki to collect our vehicles. The rest of us waved them off with mock sympathy (and quiet relief), happy enough to wrestle pigeons rather than Balkan border guards.

Three days later they returned, sunburnt, dust-streaked, and still arguing about paperwork. The ship had, naturally, docked late. Then came the circus of trying to locate our four wagons in a container yard the size of a small country. Hours of forms, signatures in triplicate, and what Johan insisted was the same document in three different colours of ink. By the time they finally coaxed the vehicles free, tempers were frayed, patience worn thin, and Stephen had developed the sort of barrow-boy patter that could’ve shifted dodgy watches on Petticoat Lane.

Fuel proved another challenge — at least until ‘creative siphoning’ entered the picture. The Greeks may not have approved, but the engines coughed, spluttered, and then roared to life. ‘Job’s a good’un,’ Stephen declared, and with that, they rattled north, wagons laden and smelling faintly of unleaded and triumph.”

“Accommodation? Don’t talk to me. They shoved us into this vast warehouse stuffed with steel bunk beds — all squeakier than a platoon of recruits breakin’ in new boots. Picture seventeen nations’ worth of blokes, every one of ’em snorin’ in a different key. Add in mozzies runnin’ a twenty-four-hour all-you-can-eat buffet on your ankles, and you’ve got the full symphony.

Sleep? That weren’t just scarce — it was mythical. Like unicorns or punctual privates. By midnight it sounded like some kind of NATO choir practice, only with more wheezin’, coughin’, and the occasional dream-shouted swear word in six languages. Felt less like a deployment and more like a twisted UN summer camp — all the flags, none of the fun.”

“Meanwhile, back in Skopje, the rest of the team were havin’ their own laugh. Multinational HQ, they called it. I called it nato charades. Officers from a dozen countries, all speakin’ what they swore blind was tactical English but sounded more like contestants on It’s a Knockout.

Lucky for us, Vinka and Marlin were workin’ the room like human Google Translate with better hair. One minute German, next French, then a dash of Serbo-Croat for spice — like watchin’ a cabaret act, only with more acronyms. Somehow, they kept the circus rolling without throwin’ their coffee at anyone. Saints, the pair of ’em.”

“He says ‘saints.’ Truth was, it was less halo, more survival. You learn quickly that if you don’t find the right words, somebody else will invent them — badly. So Marlin and I juggled the languages, soothed egos, and occasionally rewrote entire sentences before they caused an international incident. It was absurd, yes. But absurdity was half the job description.”

“Once we rolled back into Skopje — smellin’ of diesel, sweat, and a touch of victory — the real circus kicked off. Settin’ up our PSE wasn’t so much military deployment as it was buildin’ a PsyOps theme park. Did we bring too much kit? Course we did. Did we set all of it up anyway? Too right. If you’ve lugged half a ship’s cargo hold across Greece, you’re gonna plug it all in just to prove a point.

We had radios stacked like DJ decks, printers hummin’ like they were about to drop an album, and screens flashin’ enough acronyms to confuse a dictionary. Honestly, it looked like PsyOps Disneyland. Even the inflatable screen got pride of place — purely for ‘operational necessity,’ naturally.

Oh, we milked it. Guided tours, big smiles, a bit of patter — like Del Boy floggin’ colour tellies down Peckham Market. Staff officers, generals, even the odd logistician who’d clearly only come lookin’ for the tea urn wandered through wide-eyed. We gave ’em the full works: lightning-fast leaflet edits, radio broadcasts boomin’ across thirty klicks of mountainside, and slogans sticky enough to rattle round your head worse than a pop song on repeat.”

By the end, half of them thought we were magicians, the other half only wanted to borrow our printers. Either way, the message was clear enough: the nudge-and-wink brigade had arrived, and we were not there to play games.

Our pride and joy was the radio wagon. On the outside it looked ready to broadcast the Top 40 across the whole of the Balkans — mast up twelve metres, red lights blinking, panels glowing. On the inside? It was connected to absolutely nothing except a dummy load. Still, the brass walked past, nodding approvingly, convinced we were doing something profound. Smoke and mirrors, oh yes PsyOps in a nutshell.

Next door the print truck was spitting out glossy leaflets like Willy Wonka with a laminator. Most were proper products, some were just demos, and a few were purely for our amusement. (Never underestimate the morale value of a rude cartoon left on the CO’s desk.)

The real hive was the production truck. Wires tangled everywhere, half-finished mugs of coffee perched on the printers, Stephen and Johan arguing over fonts like schoolboys, and Marlin and I trying to keep the ideas flowing without throttling them both. Genius and madness lived side by side in there — sometimes even on the same sheet of paper.

Of course, the true cementing of our “capability” came courtesy of the graphic designers. Left unsupervised for half an hour with Photoshop, they began a sideline hobby: taking candid photos of visiting generals and morphing them into black-and-white stills from old films. One colonel found himself in Casablanca, clutching a cigarette in Rick’s Café; another popped up as a brooding extra in The Third Man, trench coat and all. By the time a brigadier spotted himself tipping his hat on the steps of a steam train, the room was in stitches. The best part? Instead of outrage, the brass loved it. They called it “morale-boosting creativity.” I called it proof that our little circus could charm anyone — even senior officers with no sense of humour on paper.

Our Ops Room was hardly glamorous — just a battered portacabin tarted up with a couple of big TVs, maps taped every which way, and a scattering of mugs that bred faster than rabbits. The whiteboard was meant for taskings but quickly descended into a mix of doodles, sarcastic cartoons, and passive-aggressive reminders about whose turn it was to brew up. It wasn’t much, but it was ours, and it beat trying to look important in the glass-fronted HQ.

The CO and Ops Officer, naturally, made themselves comfortable in that shiny building — all air conditioning, leather chairs, and coffee machines that hissed like they’d been smuggled in from Milan. Our Team Boss though? He chose to plant himself out with us in the portacabins. Solidarity, he claimed. Personally, I think he was just allergic to meetings. Whatever the reason, it earned him a fair bit of respect. Out there in our little corner, with the hum of kit and the smell of instant coffee, it felt more like a family than a staff branch.

We’d had a comfortable three-week head start before 16 Air Assault Brigade finally swooped in — all boots, berets, and bravado. Johan and I, with a couple of the lads, met them at the airport, cameras ready for the press release, snapping their arrival like it was Trooping the Colour. They looked every inch the conquering heroes as they marched off the plane.

Billeting, however, was less heroic. The main body were crammed into what used to be the Old Fruit Factory, with the overflow dispatched to the Old Peanut Factory. Within days both names proved prophetic: the Fruit Factory became a compost heap in uniform, and the Peanut Factory… well, every poor soul inside was violently shelling himself.

A savage outbreak of DNV (Diarrhoea and Vomiting) tore through them so viciously it deserved its own rank and pension. Half the Brigade were welded to Portaloos like long-lost relatives. HQ was not amused. The rest of us? We couldn’t stop laughing at the irony: elite airborne troops, grounded not by enemy fire, but by dodgy stew, fruit, and nuts.

Our whole campaign in Macedonia boiled down to one thing: the fine art of telling people not to panic — while making absolutely sure they noticed a NATO-sized circus had just rolled into town. We were the polite tannoy voice of the Balkans: “Nothing to worry about, folks… just a few thousand soldiers with armoured vehicles parked outside your house.”

To spread the message, we went full-spectrum. Corporal Simpson — our print wizard — teamed up with another graphics guru to churn out posters, cartoons, and newspaper spreads that landed somewhere between public-service announcement and comic strip. They were clear, clever, and funny enough that locals actually read them. Meanwhile, our radio lad cooked up jingles so catchy you’d catch yourself humming them in the shower — which, given the water supply in Skopje, was no small miracle.

Vinka, watching the posters go up across half the city, gave her trademark half-smile. “It is strange, yes? We tell people, ‘Do not panic,’ while we cover every wall with NATO logos and leaflets. If I were them, I might panic just a little more.” She was right, of course — but the odd thing was, it worked.

But the jewel in the crown was our shiny new toy: RDS — Radio Data System. For the first time ever, we were hijacking car radios across Macedonia, blasting out “NATO: The Mission Continues.” Bit bland, though, wasn’t it? I leaned over to Johan and muttered, “They should’ve gone with ‘NATO: Now With Extra Tanks’ or ‘NATO: Because Who Doesn’t Love a Roadblock?’” He gave me that long-suffering look — the one that says, “Please, mate, don’t get us court-martialled.” Naturally, that only encouraged me. By the end of the week I’d come up with a whole set: “NATO: Your Neighbourhood Watch, But Louder” and “Don’t Panic, We’re Professionals… Sort Of.” HQ were about as amused as a sergeant-major at a student union party. The rest of the team? They were in stitches.

I listened to Stephen’s “alternative slogans” and shook my head. He has this gift for turning even a perfectly serviceable campaign into stand-up comedy. I told him, “One day, they will print exactly what you say by mistake. And then, we will see if you still laugh.” He only grinned wider, of course. I think part of him wanted it to happen, just to prove the point.

Then came one of those classic Army moments. I was happily editing images, minding me own business, when some bright spark pipes up, “Grab your camera kit and jump in the wagon — you’re off with the Paras to a village in the hills. Weapons pick-up.”

Naturally, I asked, “Got time to grab me daysack?”

“Nope. You’ll be back by tea and medals.”

Famous last words.

Whenever someone promises “back by tea,” what they really mean is: “bring a sleeping bag.”

Three days later, I was still stuck on that godforsaken hilltop — armed with nothing but a camera, a 9mm pistol, and a mood that could’ve stripped paint. No spare socks, no sleeping bag, no toothbrush. Just me, my lens, and a pack of Paras who thought the whole thing was the funniest joke they’d ever seen. They did throw me a couple of rat packs — mercifully DNV-free this time — so I dined like a king on cold beans and stale biscuits.

Still, I came back with some cracking shots. A few even made the international wire, complete with my name in the byline. Probably the only bloke in NATO to get briefly famous while smelling like a compost heap and living off borrowed custard creams.

When I finally staggered back into camp, Johan took one sniff, winced, and went, “Blimey, mate — I can smell you from checkpoint Charlie. Fame suits you, shame about the hygiene.”

I waved the newspaper clipping under his nose. “Look at that, sunshine — international press! You’re lookin’ at NATO’s answer to David Bailey.”

He smirked. “More like NATO’s answer to Stig of the Dump. Next time, take a toothbrush.”

I did not know whether to laugh or to throw him straight in the showers. He stood there, stinking, waving that newspaper like a trophy. Only Stephen could turn three days of misery and poor hygiene into a press victory. I told him, “Congratulations, love. Now please… burn those socks.”

By the time the op wrapped up, we’d smashed our target — quite literally — dragging in far more weapons than anyone had reckoned on. The haul had everything: rusty AKs, battered rocket launchers, pistols so ancient they probably fired in black-and-white.

To mark the moment, they laid on a full PR day — world’s press wheeled in to gawp at mountains of hardware before it all got ceremonially destroyed. Bit like arms-control bonfire night, just without the sparklers or toasted marshmallows. Cameras clicked, officials made speeches, and you could almost hear the crowd go “ooh” and “ah.”

Johan leaned over and muttered, “Only thing missing is Guy Fawkes on top.”

I grinned back. “Nah — give it ten minutes, and some Para’ll try roasting a sausage over it.”

We laughed, but the truth was, there was a strange finality about that pile of weapons — as though Macedonia had finally decided to breathe again. For one brief moment, it felt like the job was done, that influence and leaflets and sheer bloody patience had actually shifted something.

And then… everything changed.

Stephen and I were sat in the car outside Camp Able Sentry’s PX, engine idling, radio spilling out some relentlessly twangy country tune. I teased him that if we stayed much longer, he’d be saying “y’all and yee hah” by teatime. A couple of the lads were still inside, stocking up on tactical snacks, knock-off Oakleys, and enough Gatorade to irrigate half of Macedonia.

Then the music cut.

The announcer’s voice came flat, urgent, almost unbelieving: “A plane has hit the World Trade Center.”

Stephen and I looked at each other — the kind of look that needs no words. His hand found mine across the gear stick, firm, grounding, saying more than speech could manage.

Didn’t take long for the others to stroll out of the PX, arms full of crisps, sugar, and Oakleys that’d make Del Boy proud. They stopped dead when they clocked our faces.

“Get in,” I told ’em. Quiet. No joking left in it.

By the time we were back in the Ops Room, the second plane smashed into the South Tower — live, right there on the big screen. The room went still. Not a mutter, not a shuffle. Just the flicker of CNN and a silence heavy enough to crush you.

We all knew, in that instant, the world had shifted. So had we.

That night the four of us sat off in the corner of the mess, away from the noise of phones and the endless churn of rolling news. No one touched the tea. The mugs just cooled in front of us, untouched, while we tried to take in the fact that nothing — not for us, not for anyone — would ever be the same again.

Marlin sat tucked against Johan, her head resting on his shoulder. He kept tracing small circles on her hand, like each one was an anchor for them both. Across from them, Stephen leaned into me, his arm warm and steady around my shoulders. Every so often his thumb brushed the back of my hand — not restless, just constant, reminding me wordlessly that I wasn’t alone.

None of us spoke at first. What was there to say? The screen showed the same terrible loop — towers burning, the second plane striking, the impossible collapse. Each replay made the room feel smaller, the air heavier.

It was Johan who finally broke the silence, his voice quiet. “This changes everything, doesn’t it?”

I nodded. “Yes. For all of us.”

Stephen let out a long breath, heavier than words. “We’ll be sent, won’t we?”

No one answered. We didn’t need to. The truth was already sitting with us at that table. The world had tilted in one single day, and wherever it turned next, we knew we’d be pulled along. Together.

Only a week remained on our original contracts, due to end on 30 September. By rights, we should have been easing back toward civvy street. Instead, the very next chapter was already unfolding. On 1st October 2001 we weren’t leaving — we were recommitting, packing again before we’d even unpacked, stepping into a future none of us could quite see yet.

Out in the corridor we lingered, the echo of the CO’s words still hanging in the air. Four more years, WO2s, Afghanistan. It was a lot to take in all at once.

Stephen broke first, as ever. “Cor blimey,” he said, shaking his head with that lopsided grin of his, “one minute it’s tea and medals, next it’s sand and sandals. Typical Army.”

Johan gave his usual roll of the eyes, though there was the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Pride, not that he’d admit it. Marlin just exhaled slowly, squeezing my hand again like she always did when words wouldn’t do.

I found myself glancing at the three of them — my husband, my dearest friend, and the brother I’d never asked for but couldn’t imagine life without. The weight of it all pressed in, yet at the same time, so did the certainty. Whatever was coming — Kabul, Kandahar, chaos — we were stepping into it together.

Stephen clapped Johan on the shoulder. “Well then, lads and lasses. Looks like we’ve just signed up for the adventure tour.”

Johan’s reply was dry as dust: “Adventure with sand. Lots of it.”

We all laughed, a little too loudly for a corridor, but it was the kind of laughter that kept fear at arm’s length. Afghanistan was coming. But so were we.

We left the Pioneer shop grinning like kids with new toys, Warrant scrolls tucked under our arms as though they might vanish if we let go. Outside, the autumn air felt sharper, crisper, like the world knew something had changed for us.

Johan, ever the practical one, muttered, “Promotion’s nice. But it just means more paperwork.”

Stephen shot back, “Yeah, but at least now we get to shout louder while we’re doin’ it.”

Marlin just rolled her eyes, though she was smiling the whole time. Me? I felt the weight and the lift all at once — four years more in green, a war on the horizon, and the four of us bound tighter than ever.

We weren’t naïve; we knew what Afghanistan meant, even before the briefings started. Long deployments, hard ground, danger that didn’t hide in the shadows but stared you down in daylight. Yet beneath all that was the simple truth: we’d chosen this life, chosen it together. And with new rank stitched on our sleeves and Warrant scrolls ready for the frames, there was no turning back.

Letter from Petra to me

Ellös, Sweden

My dearest Vinka,

I wanted to write straight away, before the news reached you from anyone else. Tim’s time in Stockholm has come to an end. He’s been posted to the 1st Battalion, The Royal Anglian Regiment—the Vikings—as Company Sergeant Major in one of the rifle companies. You can imagine the mixture of pride and worry that brought to our kitchen table last night.

He’s already been told the Battalion is to deploy to Kabul. Tim tried to soften it, saying it was “all part of the job” and that he’d be with good men, but you know him—his eyes always give away more than his words. I see the weight of responsibility he carries now, not just for himself but for all those young soldiers who’ll be looking to him.

As for me, I’ve decided to stay here in Ellös while he’s away. The family needs an anchor, and this little village has always been that for me. I’ll keep busy with the house, with Papa and Mama nearby, and of course with the Translators’ office, where they’ve kindly said I can base myself for as long as Tim is deployed. Between work and home, I know I’ll have enough to keep my mind steady.

I know you understand better than most what it means to see your husband march off again. Still, it helps to share the news with you. Write soon, dear sister, and tell me everything of your days.

With all my love,

Petra

My dearest Petra,

Thank you for your letter. I could almost hear your voice in every line, and I know how heavy your heart must feel with Tim’s posting. You are right to be proud of him. A Company Sergeant Major in the Vikings is no small thing — it means they trust him to carry an entire company of men on his shoulders, and we both know he will do it with all the strength he has.

There is something I must tell you, though it may surprise you. The four of us — Stephen, Johan, Marlin, and I — have also been tasked to Kabul. We’ll be deploying as part of a PsyOps team. It means our work will take us into the city and its districts, but it also means we’ll be close enough to keep an eye on Tim while he leads his company.

I won’t pretend I don’t feel the same knot in my stomach as you. Kabul is not a place to be taken lightly. But it comforts me to know we won’t be scattered. We’ll be together, watching out for each other in the ways we can. And you can be sure of this — while Tim is out there with his men, his brothers and sisters will be near.

Stay strong in Ellös, and let the Translators’ office keep your mind steady. Purpose helps while the waiting stretches on. Write often, dear sister, and I promise to do the same.

With all my love,

Vinka

Because deployment dates were still up in the air — like everything else in theatre — we decided to stay in the UK for Christmas, but with a twist. We invited the entire Swedish contingent of the family over. They arrived the week before, armed with snow boots, smoked fish, and enough festive cheer to power the national grid.

Between our kids, their kids, parents, in-laws, Tim and Petra stopping in with Mum, and Ingrid and Harry’s place packed to the rafters with put-me-ups, we ended up cramming four houses to bursting. It was chaos, of course — the kind where you’re forever short of chairs, rationing forks, and wedging people onto inflatable mattresses like some sort of military exercise in human Tetris.

The cherry on top of all that mince-pie madness was the Mess Christmas Ball on the 22nd of December. The staff outdid themselves — white tablecloths crisp enough to slice fingers, candles in tall glass holders flickering against mirrored walls, and a band that, for once, knew more than a single Glenn Miller tune. We brought everyone — even our parents — and what a sight it was. Papa Erik attempted a foxtrot with Mama, his face stern as if conducting military drill, while Harry gallantly tried to quickstep with Ingrid, sending her into helpless laughter. Even Tim, usually the serious one these days, loosened up after a couple of glasses and spun Petra about like they were teenagers again.

The whole room shimmered with joy and a touch of unreality, as though we were all trying to squeeze every ounce of light out of the evening, knowing what lay ahead. For a few hours, there was only music, laughter, and the glow of family gathered close.

Course, the band might’ve been on their best form, but I reckon Johan and me gave ’em a run for their money when we tried belting out In the Mood half a key too high. Marlin and Vinka had to drag us back to the table before we declared open warfare on the trumpet section. Then came the port — and far too much of it. I caught Erik topping up Harry’s glass like he was fuelling a jet, and by the time the cheese board appeared, they were both singing sea shanties no one else knew the words to.

I’ll tell you the bit that stuck with me, though. Vinka — my Vinka — standing there under the fairy lights, cheeks flushed from dancing, smiling like she could hold back the whole world just by wanting it hard enough. We had our dance, slow and steady, and for a few minutes the music drowned out Kabul, the Army, all of it. Just her and me. That’s the bit I’ll keep, long after the trumpets, the port, and even the looming orders fade.

To survive the family invasion, we made the sensible choice of retreating to a nearby hotel for a couple of nights over Christmas — partly for the dinners, mostly for the sanity. Much as I adore my family, there’s only so many inflatable mattresses, overcooked Brussels sprouts, and endless queues for the bathroom a person can endure before cracking. At the hotel, we could breathe: quiet breakfasts, hot showers without someone banging on the door, and proper roast dinners that arrived without Papa Erik muttering about the potatoes.